QE  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AIQZLES 


"Take  my  tip,  old  boy,— make  it  up  with  the  Gov'nor."— Page  21 


HILL  RISE 


BY 

W.   B.   MAXWELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  Vivien, "  "The  Guarded  Flame, "  ' ' Odd  Lengths, ' 
"Fabulous  Fancies,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

H.  B.  MATTHEWS 


NEW  YORK 
EMPIRE  BOOK  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
W.  B.  MAXWELL 


Entered  at  Statitneri"  Hall 
Ml  rights  reserved 


HILL  RISE 


CHAPTEE  I 

THE  earliest  recollections  of  Lizzie  Crunden  were  full  of 
Hill  Kise — as  something  spacious  and  awe-productive,  open- 
ing out  before  you,  leading  you  upward  to  thoughts  of 
grandeur  and  mystery. 

She  would  wake  and  look  at  it  from  her  bedroom  window 
of  a  summer  morning,  and  childishly  brood  on  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  prospect  it  offered.  A  broad  white  road,  empty 
as  yet,  still  sleeping  in  the  summer  sunlight ;  with  noble  houses 
on  either  side,  carriage  gates  and  broad  steps,  white  may,  red 
may,  yellow  laburnum  showing  gaily  over  garden  walls — a 
wide  ascending  vista  closed  by  the  stately  trees  in  the  grounds 
of  Hill  House,  where  lived  the  great  Sir  John.  This  was 
Lizzie's  view  of  it,  and  Lizzie  felt  herself  a  happy,  lucky  child, 
because  papa's  house  stood  fair  and  square  at  the  bottom  of 
Hill  Rise. 

Papa  Crunden  was  the  most  prosperous,  solidly  respectable 
builder  in  all  the  town  of  Medford.  To  the  awakening  and 
expanding  intelligence  of  his  little  daughter,  it  seemed  that 
Medford,  with  its  eighteen  thousand  inhabitants,  formed  a 
vastly  important  city,  and  that  papa  in  his  own  way  was 
a  very  considerable  force.  He  was  not  illustrious  and  myste- 
rious like  Sir  John  Vincent  of  Hill  House — a  gentleman,  a 
baronet,  and  what  not  else,  vaguely,  crushingly  grand.  But 
he  had  his  men;  a  small  army  of  them;  he  had  the  place 
they  called  "the  yard,"  and  the  other  places  they  called  "the 
works,'-'  as  well  as  this  ample  residence  which  was  called 
"home,"  or  "King's  Cottage."  Certainly  papa  was  not  with- 
out importance  in  the  world's  scheme. 

No  one  could  make  light  of  him  when  he  was  displeased. 
As,  for  instance,  when  he  came  in  for  the  early  dinner, 


2131123 


6  HILL  RISE 

and,  glancing  at  the  clock,  found  that  the  early  dinner 
was  late. 

"Come,  come !"  he  would  say  sternly  and  loudly.  "What's 
this?"  and  he  would  open  doors  and  call  through  them: 
"Mother!  Mrs.  Price!  Jane!  What  the  dickens  are  you 
all  thinking  about?" 

Then,  while  he  stood  in  the  lobby  brushing  the  brick- 
dust  from  his  clothes,  or  stamped  to  and  fro  about  the  big 
room,  the  household  bestirred  itself  breathlessly.  "Coming, 
Eichard ;  coming  I"  called  mamma  in  her  gentle,  soothing 
voice;  Jane,  the  maid,  clattered  with  the  trays  and  plates 
in  the  stone-flagged  passage  from  the  kitchen ;  Mrs.  Price,  the 
cook-housekeeper,  bustling  unseen,  dished  up  at  express 
speed. 

The  big  room  was  the  one  just  inside  the  front  door,  and 
it  was  used  all  the  morning  as  Mr.  Crunden's  own  official 
room;  through  it  you  passed  to  the  sitting-room  and  the 
never-used  state  parlour  or  drawing-room.  The  custom  was 
to  dine  in  the  big  room,  but  sometimes  the  custom  was 
broken  and  they  dined  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was  this 
occasional  break  of  routine  that  led  to  the  very  funny  thing. 
When  papa  once  was  thus  fussing  and  fuming,  Mrs.  Price 
with  a  demure  smile  announced  to  him  that  dinner  had  been 
on  the  table  and  getting  cold  for  the  last  five  minutes  in  the 
other  room. 

If  so,  said  papa,  with  a  quick  change  of  tone,  it  was  no 
reason  why  Mrs.  Price  should  grin  like  a  Cheshire  cat.  But 
then  he  laughed  heartily. 

"Lizzie,  my  little  fairy,"  he  said,  laughing,  "I  cried  out 
before  I  was  hurt  this  time,  didn't  I?" 

That  was  the  merit  of  papa.  He  would  be  stern  and  severe 
— almost  terrible — and  then  in  a  moment  cheerful  and  good- 
tempered  again.  If  he  made  your  nerves  shake,  he  did  not 
keep  them  shaking — that  is  to  say,  unless  he  was  really  angry. 
Then  it  was  like  an  earthquake:  the  earth  trembled. 

In  these  happy  days,  however,  he  was  not  often  really 
angered.  He  was  only  holding  people  up  to  the  mark,  guard- 
ing against  slackness  at  home  or  at  the  yard.  Mrs.  Price, 
as  well  as  mamma,  told  Lizzie  that  her  father  was  at  heart 


HILL  RISE  7 

the  kindest  man  that  ever  lived.  And  truly  he  was  very  kind 
to  Lizzie — kinder,  much  kinder,  than  to  her  long-legged, 
schoolboy  brother,  Dick. 

He  was  seeking  to  hold  Dick  up  to  the  mark,  and  already 
beginning  to  fail.  "Don't  be  a  slacker,  my  boy,"  that  was 
what  he  said  to  Dick  again  and  again.  "Stick  to  it;  put 
your  back  into  it,  whatever  you  do." 

When  Dick  came  home  for  the  holidays  from  the  grammar 
school  at  Brayton,  papa  welcomed  him  affectionately;  but 
then,  too  soon,  he  would  ask  troublesome  questions. 

"Well,  my  boy,  I  hope  you've  done  better  this  term  and 
brought  a  good  report  with  you.  .  .  .  Where  is  your  report  ?" 

At  the  word  "report"  poor  Mrs.  Crunden  always  became 
restless,  talkative,  and  nervous. 

"Don't  trouble  about  that  to-night,  father ;  that'll  keep  till 
to-morrow,  won't  it?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have  seen  it.  ...  Don't 
look  at  it  to-night.  .  .  .  No — not  what  one  could  call  really 
good.  But,  father,  it  might  well  be  worse." 

Of  course  Mr.  Crunden  would  not  wait.  He  must  see  the 
wretched  document  now,  here,  this  very  minute. 

Then  there  would  be  an  oppressive  silence.  The  father 
had  laid  down  his  pipe,  was  sitting  in  the  candle-light  at  his 
bureau  solemnly  reading;  the  son  had  plunged  his  hands  in 
his  trousers  pockets,  was  looking  at  the  ceiling  or  making 
facetious  grimaces  at  his  young  sister;  mamma,  miserably 
uncomfortable,  was  warning  Dick  by  raised  finger  and  moving 
lips  to  refrain  from  impudence  and  to  bear  reproof  patiently; 
Mrs.  Price,  softly  clearing  the  supper-table,  was  too  brave  to 
hurry  through  her  task  and  get  safely  away  to  the  kitchen, 
although  she  might  think  that  a  domestic  earthquake  was 
coming. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  at  last,  turning  from  the  bureau 
and  facing  his  son ;  "well,  what  have  you  got  to  say  for  your- 
-self?" 

"Oh !"  said  Dick,  with  real  or  affected  carelessness,  "they'll 
never  make  a  learned  pig  of  me.  They'd  better  give  me  up 
as  a  bad  job." 

Then  perhaps  papa  for  a  little  while  looked  quite  terrible. 
He  was  a  short,  sturdy  man — a  square  block  of  a  man,  seem- 


8  HILL  RISE 

ing  strong  and  hard  as  one  of  his  bricks  set  on  end.  He  had 
stiff,  grey  eyebrows,  a  broad  nose,  and  a  stiff,  short  beard.  His 
dark  hair  had  gone  grey,  but,  although  he  was  fifty,  it  re- 
mained thick  and  strong  still.  When  he  frowned  as  he  was 
frowning  now,  his  eyebrows  made  a  straight  bar,  and,  in  the 
shadow  beneath,  his  keen  grey  eyes  were  almost  lost.  Yet  he 
was  not  really  angry,  even  now — in  spite  of  the  report. 

Systematic,  persistent  slacking — that  was  Dick's  report 
term  after  term. 

This  King's  Cottage  was  a  pleasant,  countrified,  old-world 
house  to  find  in  a  town.  Mr.  Crunden — whose  business  it  was 
to  know  all  about  houses — used  to  tell  people  that,  in  fact, 
the  cottage  was  here  before  the  town.  In  the  good  old  times, 
when  almost  all  the  twenty-five  miles  between  Medford  and 
London  were  covered  by  a  royal  forest,  the  cottage  was  a  royal 
lodge.  In  it  lived  one  of  the  King's  keepers  or  bailiffs.  That 
fact  accounted  for  the  name,  and  also  for  the  spacious  solid 
offices  as  well  as  the  big  room. 

"This  room,  sir,"  Mr.  Crunden  would  say,  "was  employed 
as  a  kind  of  a  courtroom  for  trying  the  deer-stealers,  and 
I  make  no  doubt  myself  what  is  now  our  kitchen  was  em- 
ployed as  a  lock-up.  ...  I  judge  that  by  many  signs." 

The  house  had  been  added  to  and  "messed  about,"  as  Mr. 
Crunden  said,  again  and  again  in  modern  days,  but  much 
of  the  splendid  old  material  remained. 

"Look,  sir,  at  those  ceiling  beams,  and  the  span  of  the 
hearth,  or  measure  the  thickness  of  this  wall — an  internal 
wall,  mind  you.  We  don't  build  like  this  nowadays.  Give 
me  an  order  to  put  up  a  house  like  this,  and  I'd  be  frightened 
to  take  the  order." 

If  people  exhibited  any  interest  in  these  matters  Mr.  Crun- 
den would  show  them  the  inner  hall  and  the  old  oak  staircase : 
"Step  this  way,  sir" — marching  the  visitor  through  the 
sitting-room  where,  perhaps,  Lizzie  and  her  governess  were 
busy  with  their  books.  "Now,  sir,  I'll  give  you  my  own  belief 
about  that  staircase.  It's  Charles  Two  or  James  Two,  all 
that  woodwork  is;  and  I  believe  it  was  taken  bodily  out  of  a 
church.  If  you  ask  what  church,  I  say  the  old  church  that  is 


HILL  RISE  9 

marked  on  all  the  maps  up  to  a  hundred  years  ago,  hard  by 
where  St.  Barnabas  now  stands.  I  judge  that  by  many  signs ; 
and  Mr.  Cowling,  the  architect,  he  says  he  wouldn't  care  to 
bet  against  it." 

Be  all  that  as  it  may,  Mr.  Crunden  was  not  improperly 
proud  of  his  modest  yet  comfortable  home,  and  little  Lizzie 
loved  it. 

Outwardly,  it  was  white-walled,  red-roofed,  with  deep  eaves. 
It  had  two  front  doors :  the  main  door,  which  opened  into 
the  lobby  of  the  big  office  room,  which  carried  the  brass  plate — 
"K.  Crunden,  Builder  and  Decorator" — which,  weather  per- 
mitting, stood  open  all  the  morning  to  admit  all  comers ;  and 
the  small  state  door,  which  was  approached  by  the  tiled  path 
through  the  narrow  strip  of  garden  behind  the  white  palings. 
Here,  at  this  second  door,  Mrs.  Crunden's  ceremonious  visitors 
knocked  and  rang  and  waited  until  somebody  happened  to 
hear  them — and  that  was  often  a  very  long  time. 

Inwardly  it  was  a  house  of  varied  charm,  or  so  it  seemed 
to  Lizzie  and  to  Dick  in  these  days.  It  was  not  too  big,  not 
too  small — no  room  in  it  like  another,  full  of  surprises, 
hiding-places;  with  quaint,  old-fashioned  furniture  every- 
where except  in  mamma's  drawing-room.  In  that  apartment 
all  was  new — chosen  by  mamma  herself — and  it  was  all  frankly 
magnificent. 

Behind  the  house  was  a  perfect  child's  garden — a  long 
garden  between  high  walls,  with  good  climbable,  treasure- 
bearing  trees  in  it:  such  as  the  mulberry,  the  walnut,  the 
apple,  and  the  pear;  grass  lawn,  grass-grown  paths;  empty 
potting-sheds,  neglected,  broken-down  greenhouse — all  most 
useful  in  childish  games;  fruit  bushes  turning  to  jungle, 
flower  borders  gone  to  wild  seed  and  profuse  weed;  in  fact, 
a  garden  unspoilt  by  too  much  gardener.  And  at  the  bottom 
of  it,  the  summer-house,  from  which  one  looked  out  at  the 
roofs,  chimneys,  and  walls  of  Medford  Town. 

Above  all  else  Lizzie  loved  their  old,  untended  garden 
when  Dick  was  there  to  play  with  her. 

As  years  passed,  Mr.  Crunden  grew  more  stern  rather  than 
less  stern,  and*  yet  he  found  always  kind  words  for  Lizzie. 


10  HILL  RISE 

Between  her  twelfth  and  thirteenth  birthdays  she  had,  as  all 
agreed,  shot  up  surprisingly,  and  was  now  a  tall  child  for  her 
years.  Mamma  gave  scrupulous  care  to  her  costume,  dressing 
her  wisely  and  well  in  brown  frocks  during  the  winter  and 
nice  blue  frocks  with  big  white  spots  on  them  during  the 
summer.  Black  stockings  went  with  the  blue  frocks,  made 
of  cotton  for  weekdays  and  silk  for  Sundays.  Mamma  took 
pride  in  these  neat,  attractive  clothes,  and  papa  was  proud 
of  the  pretty,  graceful  girl  inside  them. 

"She  has,"  said  Miss  Blackburn,  the  morning  governess, 
"quite  the  aristocratic  air.  Hers  is  a  refined  type  of  beauty — 
unusually  so — really  and  truly." 

Miss  Blackburn  was  nothing  if  not  genteel.  She  had  taught 
in  several  of  the  best  houses  in  Medford — the  Beaumonts', 
the  Granvilles',  etc.,  of  Hill  Eise, — and  she  offered  this  con- 
fidentially flattering  opinion  with  a  tone  of  authority.  Mr. 
Crunden  showed  something  of  a  wry  face  at  the  compliment, 
and  made  allowance  for  what  he  termed  Miss  Blackburn's 
buttering  way.  But,  in  sober  truth,  his  daughter  was  a  pretty, 
winning  child.  Her  brown  hair  was  soft  and  wavy,  making  a 
full,  wide  mane  under  the  large  ribbon  bow  behind;  her 
complexion  was  delicate,  and  the  colour  came  and  went 
quickly  beneath  the  smooth  skin;  her  nose  was  long  and  thin 
and  straight;  she  had  fairly  marked  eyebrows,  and  good  grey 
eyes  with  lots  of  childish  fun  always  ready  to  shine  in  them. 
Her  manner  to  visitors  was  shyly  caressing,  and  to  her  family 
affectionately  exacting. 

"Never  mind  about  her  looks,"  said  papa,  rather  gruffly. 
"Does  she  mind  her  task,  Miss  Blackburn?  That's  what  I 
think  about."  And  as  he  glanced  at  Lizzie,  sitting  out  of 
earshot,  it  was  plain  that  he  did  think  of  the  other  things 
also,  though  he  might  not  confess  as  much. 

"Fond  of  play,  Mr.  Crunden ;  very  fond  of  a  game  of  play," 
said  Miss  Blackburn.  "But  we  must  not  complain." 

"Stick  to  it,  Lizzie,"  said  papa  impressively.  "Stick  to 
it,  my  dear." 

Lizzie  at  this  period  was  already  deep  in  the  mysteries 
of  the  French  language — an  acquisition  held  in  reverence  by 
papa.  When  Lizzie  recited  morsels  of  French  after  supper 


HILL  RISE  11 

Mrs.  Price  lifted  her  hands  admiringly;  and  mamma  nodded 
and  smiled,  and  continued  to  do  so  until  the  conversation 
flowed  on  again  in  English.  Mamma  seemed  a  little  shy  of 
French — never  wished  to  express  a  critical  opinion.  But  Mr. 
Crunden,  one  night,  possessing  himself  of  the  lesson  book, 
silently  and  resolutely  tackled  the  matter,  and  did  not  rest 
before  he  had  committed  some  French  to  memory. 

Henceforth,  when  he  passed  through  the  room  where  sat 
pupil  and  teacher,  he  would  accost  them  facetiously : 

"Well,  Lizzie,  my  dear !  Oo-ay  lar  quizzineer  ?  Oo-ay  ler 
Shah?  Oo-ay  mong  Shah-nore?" 

His  accent  was  lamentable,  but  he  was  understood  both  by 
Miss  Blackburn  and  by  Lizzie  to  be  asking  for  news  of  the 
cook  and  the  cat. 

"Stick  to  it;"  and  he  would  laugh  heartily.  "Stick  to  it, 
my  little  fairy.  Among  us  we  mean  to  make  a  lady  of  you — 
same  as  all  the  young  misses  in  Hill  Eise." 

He  laughed  thus  with  Lizzie  about  French,  but  it  seemed 
that  he  had  no  laughter  nowadays  for  other  people  and  other 
things.  Why  was  papa  turning  moody  and  gloomy,  and  yet 
more  stern  ? 

It  troubled  her  to  think  that  father  was  troubled.  It  irked 
her,  who  was  so  happy,  to  feel  by  instinct  unhappy  thought 
in  those  she  loved. 

One  day  there  came  to  her  a  sudden  most  dreadful  fear: 
that  papa  must  be  about  to  become  what  they  called  bankrupt. 
This,  as  already  she  had  gathered,  was  an  enigmatical  but 
calamitous  state  into  which  builders  were  apt  to  fall.  The 
bankrupt  condition  was,  it  appeared,  to  the  best  of  builders 
what  measles  are  to  the  best  of  children — a  thing  not  to  be 
avoided  by  personal  effort;  a  thing  for  which  you  could  not 
properly  be  blamed.  No  such  annoyance,  however,  threatened 
Mr.  Crunden.  Mamma  and  Mrs.  Price  at  once  reassured  her. 
Papa  had  never  been  more  prosperous  than  at  present. 

Middle-aged,  beaming,  hard-working  Mrs.  Price  was  a 
cousin  of  the  house  as  well  as  its  "quizzineer,"  and  no  secrets 
were  hid  from  her.  She  was  a  valiant,  modest  creature,  who 
was  servant  always  until  you  reminded  her  that  she  was  a 
member  of  the  family.  She  never  presumed;  she  went  on 


12  HILL  RISE 

cooking  for  you,  waiting  on  you,  asking  no  questions,  but  if  in 
a  moment  you  craved  a  confidential  chat  with  a  relative — well, 
there  she  was,  ready  to  come  along  the  stone-flagged  passage 
and  enter  the  room  as  sympathetic  cousin.  No  arrange- 
ment could  be  more  convenient  or  comfortable. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  reassuring  Lizzie,  "your 
father  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England." 

What  worried  papa  was  merely  Dick,  and  public  affairs. 
He  was  anxiously  planning  the  career  of  his  natural  suc- 
cessor, E.  Crunden,  Junior;  and  he  was  much  occupied  and 
harassed  by  his  duty  to  watch  over  the  future  welfare 
of  the  town  of  Medford. 

"Your  father,"  said  loyal  Mrs.  Price,  "is  the  wisest,  long- 
headedest  man  on  the  Council,  and  they  don't  listen  to  what 
he  says  as  they  ought." 

He  was  Councillor  Crunden — if  you  gave  him  his  full 
title.  Fancy ! 

With  a  solid  stake  in  Medford,  he  had  wished  for  a  seat 
on  the  Town  Council,  had  thought  he  could  be  useful  at  the 
municipal  board,  and  had  offered  himself  as  an  independent 
candidate  to  the  burgesses  of  the  lower  Hill-ward.  Now  he 
had  obtained  his  wish;  a  Councillor's  chair  was  his  to  sit 
in,  and  he  found  himself  quite  useless.  No  one  would  listen 
to  him;  he  was  constantly  in  opposition.  Sometimes — as  on 
this  question  of  the  new  Town  Hall — he  was  quite  alone; 
a  compact  minority  composed  of  Crunden. 

The  town  felt  that  the  time  had  come  when  it  really  must 
build  itself  a  grand  municipal  palace.  Since  Mr.  Crunden 
was  a  builder,  one  might  suppose  that  his  only  anxiety  would 
be  to  secure  this  building  job  and  build  the  Town  Hall  him- 
self. But  not  a  bit  of  it.  He  decried  the  scheme,  stren- 
uously maintained  that  no  building  was  necessary ;  these  dingy 
old  tumble-down  rooms  at  the  corner  of  Market  Street  were 
admirably  fitted  and  altogether  sufficient  for  the  deliberations 
of  the  town  fathers;  it  was  folly,  vainglory,  unworthy  non- 
sense to  burden  the  rates  with  large  and  avoidable  outlay. 
Such  narrow  views  were  highly  offensive  to  the  dignity  of  his 
colleagues,  and,  oddly  enough,  proved  unpopular  with  the 
rate-payers. 


HILL  RISE  13 

"I  call  that,"  said  a  rude  and  irate  councillor  in  council 
assembled,  "I  call  that  talking  like  a  hedgehog.  Any  hole  may 
be  good  enough  for  some  people,  but  it  isn't  good  enough 
for  us." 

This  rude  speech  summed  up  public  opinion,  and  was 
widely  applauded.  Mr.  Crunden,  walking  home  from  the 
yard,  soon  had  occasion  to  chase,  or  pretend  to  chase,  a  vulgar 
urchin  who  had  mocked  him  and  called  him  "'Edge-'og 
Crunden."  If  he  offered  himself  to  the  lower  Hill-ward 
for  re-election  he  would  no  doubt  be  heavily  defeated.  In- 
deed, it  was  possible  that  burgesses  might  request  him  to 
resign  because  he  no  longer  represented  their  opinions  cor- 
rectly. 

Mr.  Crunden,  walking  through  the  streets  to  and  from  his 
work,  perhaps  had  bitter  thoughts  just  now.  His  manner 
hardened;  but  he  was,  as  he  had  always  been,  extraordinarily 
respectful  in  his  attitude  towards  the  gentry  of  the  place. 
This  deference  was  characteristic;  he  was  a  plain  man,  with- 
out pretension — a  successful  worker,  nothing  more.  In  fact, 
as  to  garb  and  aspect,  he  seemed  seeking  to  stand  below  his 
real  station  rather  than  above  it.  He  wore,  apparently  in 
all  seasons,  the  same  grey  suit,  and  the  square,  black  felt 
hat  that  was  a  compromise  between  a  topper  and  a  bowler.  He 
touched  his  hat  to  most  of  the  gentlemen — they  nearly  all 
knew  him;  or  if  a  gentleman  was  accompanied  by  a  lady,  he 
would  step  from  the  pavement  into  the  road,  and,  taking  off 
his  hat,  show  them  his  stiff  grey  hair.  Seeing  him  thus,  one 
might  have  guessed  that  he  was  a  superior  sort  of  workman — 
say,  a  builder's  foreman,  perhaps,  but  scarcely  the  builder  him- 
self and  an  employer  of  much  labour. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this  characteristic  deference  and  courtesy 
while  abroad,  he  would  speak  now  when  at  home  very  slight- 
ingly of  the  union  of  great  gentility  and  slender  brains.  The 
gentlefolk  had  disappointed  him.  "How  do,  Crunden  ?"  they 
said  patronisingly,  as  he  stood  bowing  or  touching  his  hat; 
but  none  stopped  to  pat  him  on  the  back  for  his  sound  com- 
mon-sense about  the  Town  Hall. 

"Mother,"  he  told  his  wife,  "it  was  to  them  I  looked  for 
support.  They  ought  to  have  supported  me.  They'll  all  feel 


14  HILL  RISE 

it  in  their  pockets,  but  they  haven't  the  brains  to  see  beyond 
the  end  of  their  supercilious  noses." 

This,  then,  was  father's  trouble — not  much,  as  considered 
by  Lizzie.  Mrs.  Price  felt  sure  there  was  nothing  else — 
always  excepting  Master  Dick  and  his  career.  But  that  would 
come  all  right  in  the  end;  everything  would  be  all  right — 
was  all  right.  So  Lizzie  worried  herself  no  more. 

Joyfully  she  cut  and  ate  her  birthday  cake — L.  C.  13,  in 
pink  sugar  traced  upon  the  white  sugar  by  Pricey's  deft  hand 
— and  plunged  into  her  fourteenth  year  as  happy  as  the  days 
were  long:  loving  her  home,  gentle  mamma,  grim  papa,  and 
dear  brother  Dick — best  of  Dicks  to  her  always,  although, 
alas !  to  the  rest  of  the  world  showing  himself  already  as  an 
idle,  good-for-nothing  Dick. 

Dick,  who  would  not  work  to  please  father,  would  always 
play  to  please  her.  By  the  art  of  make-belief  that  lay  in 
Dick  he  could  turn  common  things  to  joy — could  make  the 
garden  fairyland,  the  house  a  palace  of  delight.  He  was  nine- 
teen now,  had  done  with  the  grammar  schools,  so  she  could 
enjoy  his  society  day  after  day  without  dread  of  term. 

His  education  was  being  completed  by  Mr.  Dowling,  the 
architect  and  surveyor.  He  went  to  the  architect's  office 
every  morning;  and  if  only  he  would  learn  all  that  Mr.  Dow- 
ling  could  impart  he  would  find  such  high-class  technical 
knowledge  a  source  of  strength  and  comfort  when,  very  soon, 
he  entered  his  father's  business.  He  came  home  for  his 
meals,  and  spared  time  from  the  architectural  drawing  for 
games  with  his  little  sister,  as  well  as  for  much  loafing  about 
the  town. 

He  wore  smart,  loud  clothes,  with  gaily  tinted  shirts  and 
ties,  looked  quite  the  gentleman,  and,  as  was  soon  known, 
had  been  admitted  into  friendly  companionship  by  some  of  the 
real  gentlemen.  When  he  should  have  been  stooping  over  his 
board  and  scale,  he  had  been  seen  lounging  in  the  bar  of  the 
White  Hart  Hotel  with  the  idle,  lounging  sons  of  the  gentry 
from  the  Hill — such  as  Mr.  Charlie  Padfield,  and  the  puffy- 
faced,  whiskey-swilling  Mr.  Lardner,  of  Hill  Rise.  At  last, 
one  day,  he  brought  home  with  him  his  most  splendid  friend — 


HILL  RISE  15 

a  creature  of  another  race,  a  dazzling  presence — Mr.  Jack  Vin- 
cent, son  of  the  great  Sir  John,  from  Hill  House,  who  deigned 
to  be  friend,  or  idle  comrade,  with  Dick.  And,  after  that  day, 
smiling,  idle  Mr.  Jack  came  again  and  again. 

Mrs.  Price,  housekeeper-cousin,  lifted  her  hands  in  wonder 
at  his  condescension.  Mother  was  nattered  and  gratified. 
Only  father  was  sternly  inimical  to  this  friendship. 

Lizzie  heard  him  once,  when  her  mother  said  the  connec- 
tion might  be  valuable:  "Kubbish!  No  compliment,  I  tell 
you.  They  all  do  it — these  young  princes.  They  look  below 
them  for  hangers-on.  It  is  them  sinking,  not  our  boy 
rising." 

"Oh,  I  can't  see  that !" 

"Let  people  keep  in  their  places,  I  say.  They'll  make  a 
bigger  fool  of  Dick  than  he  is  already." 

Lizzie  had  no  qualms  or  care.  To  her,  Mr.  Jack  was  many- 
faceted  flashing  perfection.  He  lounged  in  the  garden;  or, 
lazily  rousing  himself,  played  with  her — better  than  Dick 
even.  It  seemed  disloyal  to  admit  this,  but  it  was  a  fact.  As 
an  artist  to  make-believe,  he  began  where  Dick  left  off.  If 
he  told  you  to  walk  warily  through  the  thicket  and  keep 
a  sharp  look-out  for  bears,  and  then  sprang  out  on  you,  he 
was  a  bear — neither  more  nor  less ;  and  glad  were  you  by  hard 
running  to  escape  unhugged. 

When  with  words  he  wove  a  new  game  about  you,  realities 
slunk  away  ashamed  of  themselves ;  his  fiction  held  the  stage  of 
life.  As,  for  instance,  the  wonderful,  often-played  game  in 
which  he  and  "Lizzie  were  a  pirate  and  his  wife  living  for 
many  years  in  island  fortresses,  and  Dick  was  a  British 
sloop-of-war  and  its  captain  and  its  crew. 

He  was  a  year  older  than  Dick,  and  yet  was  quite  devoid 
of  arrogance.  He  made  nothing  of  his  age  or  of  all  his  visible 
and  invisible  pomp  and  splendour.  He  had  blue  eyes,  dark, 
close-cropt  hair,  the  slightest  downy  moustache,  and  the  ready 
smile  that  was  like  careless,  profuse  sunshine.  If  poor  Dick 
was  fine  of  raiment,  he  was  gorgeous.  He  had  white  flannel 
waistcoats  with  brass  buttons;  his  shirts  were  of  all  colours 
of  the  rainbow;  his  ties  were  like  the  rainbow  itself — college 
ties.  He  was  a  Cambridge  undergraduate — what  Dick  would 


16  HILL  RISE 

have  wished  to  be  also.  He  possessed  a  wonderful  meerschaum 
pipe  that  he  smoked  assiduously;  and  this,  perhaps,  was  the 
only  thing  about  which  he  was  ever  serious.  He  would  not 
permit  Lizzie  to  touch  the  bowl  with  her  warm  little  paws ;  he 
nursed  it  tenderly  in  a  silk  handkerchief;  and  his  bright 
face  was  clouded  by  heavy  trouble  when  he  feared  that  the 
pipe  had  been  made  too  hot  and  then  cooled  too  rapidly.  At 
the  White  Hart  Hotel  he  drank  whiskey  and  soda  with  Dick, 
but  at  King's  Cottage  there  was  only  tea  to  offer  him.  He 
drank  it  contentedly,  and  seemed  to  like  it — and  that  was 
more  than  could  truly  be  said  of  Dick. 

In  these  happy  early  spring  days  he  would  often  come  loung- 
ing with  Dick  into  the  big  room  at  tea  time;  and,  no  matter 
what  Mr.  Crunden  might  say,  Mrs.  Crunden  was  proud  to 
welcome  him. 

"Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Vincent." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Crunden.  Here  I  am,  you  see,  turned 
up  again  like  a  bad  penny.  Sure  you  don't  mind  ?" 

"Indeed,  no.    Pray  join  us  at  tea." 

He  praised  everything  quite  sincerely.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  that  life  at  the  top  of  Hill  Eise  if  splendid  was  mighty 
dull.  The  hours  for  this  young  man  were  long  and  empty; 
and  he  found  difficulty  in  filling  them. 

"I  love  this  room,"  he  said,  smiling  graciously.  "I  do  call 
it  such  a  ripping  room." 

"Oh,  surely  not,"  said  Mrs.  Crunden,  deprecating,  but  in- 
tensely gratified.  "Very  different  from  the  rooms  you  are 
accustomed  to." 

But  that  perhaps  was  just  why  he  liked  it.  Anything  for  a 
change. 

Once  Mr.  Crunden  happened  to  be  in  at  tea  and  Mr.  Jack 
was  told  about  the  origin  of  the  room  and  so  forth. 

"Courtroom,  was  it?     What  a  ripping  idea." 

"Yes,  sir,  and  what  is  more,  our  kitchen  was  once  used 
for  the  lock-up.  I  judge  that,  sir,  by  many  signs." 

Mr.  Crunden  always  addressed  him  as  "Sir,"  and  was  stiff 
and  hard  in  manner,  although  most  respectful.  He  would 
scarce  sit  down  to  take  his  tea  with  so  august  a  visitor,  but 
stood,  cup  in  hand,  before  the  hearth.  He  seemed  determined 


HILL  RISE  17 

to  remember  the  visitor's  high  rank  and  station,  even  if  his 
family  wilfully  forgot  them. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Mr.  Crunden  cast  a  gloom  over 
these  pleasant  dawdling  tea-parties.  It  was  a  relief  when 
father  marched  off  to  wind  up  the  working-day  at  the  yard. 
Although  dusk  was  falling,  the  room  seemed  of  a  sudden 
brighter  when  father  left  it. 

Dick,  who  had  been  sitting  mumchance,  found  his  glib 
tongue  again;  Mrs.  Crunden  began  to  prattle  gaily;  and  the 
visitor  soon  set  them  all  laughing. 

Happy,  silly  hours,  so  dear  to  Lizzie. 

In  the  candlelight  they  talked  such  utter  nonsense,  with 
no  one  to  check  them — unless  it  was  Mrs.  Price.  But  Mrs. 
Price  was  absolutely  captivated  by  the  visitor's  affability,  and 
gladly  joined  in  all  the  fun.  The  visitor  called  her  Pricey- 
picey — first  behind  her  back,  and  then  before  her  face. 

In  the  candlelight  and  the  fireglow  they  used  to  play  a  game 
of  cards — that  silly  old  muggins,  but  now  a  rejuvenated,  glori- 
fied muggins  because  lie  presided  over  the  foolish  sport.  He 
would  have  them  play  the  game  with  an  unheard-of,  prepos- 
terous, yet  enchanting,  strictness — as  he  said  it  was  played 
at  the  University  of  Cambridge. 

"Muggins,"  he  would  cry,  did  one  make  the  most  trifling 
blunder,  and  force  one  to  accept  a  card  in  penalty. 

"Muggins  again,  Pricey-picey." 

"Lor',  no.    I  done  no  wrong." 

"Muggins  you  for  not  mugginsing  me."  Or,  worse  still: 
"Muggins  you  for  not  mugginsing  me  for  not  mugginsing 
you." 

"Oh,  'tis  a  shame,"  Mrs.  Price  would  expostulate.  "You 
all  shuffle  off  your  cards  on  me." 

The  object,  of  course,  was  to  be  rid  of  one's  cards,  get  out 
of  the  game,  and  escape  being  Mrs.  Muggins.  Mrs.  Price 
was  always  Mrs.  Muggins — left  in  alone  at  the  end  of  the 
game.  It  was  a  foregone  conclusion :  she  had  been  fashioned 
by  nature  for  this  fate  and  could  not  evade  it. 

Sometimes  they  had  "How,  When,  and  Where"  after  the 
cards,  and  again  Mrs.  Price  suffered  failure.  Her  candour 
seemed  so  great  that  she  could  not  frame  an  equivocal  answer. 


18  HILL  RISE 

If  the  word  was  Box  and  you  asked  Pricey-picey  how  she 
liked  it,  she  would  reply,  "With  a  strong  lock,  and  large 
enough  to  hold  all  my  clothes."  And  then,  if  you  please,  she 
would  wonder  how  she  had  betrayed  the  secret. 

But  Mrs.  Price's  triumph  came  when  they  did  the  acting. 
She  it  was  who  supplied  the  play,  and  taught  the  players  their 
parts  with  all  the  appropriate  gesture  and  emphasis.  It 
was,  it  seemed,  a  pretty  romantic  drama  that  had  never 
been  set  on  paper:  it  was  legendary  lore  handed  down  by 
nursemaids  and  governesses  out  of  the  dim  past.  Who  could 
have  guessed  that  Mrs.  Price  would  carry  such  a  unique  treas- 
ure in  her  kind  old  head? 

"Madam,"  acted  Mr.  Jack,  with  a  tremendous  air,  "to  you 
I  humbly  bow  and  bend." 

"And  bow  then/'  said  Mrs.  Price,  conducting  the  rehearsal. 
"Now,  Lizzie!" 

Lizzie  was  the  heroine,  and  she  loved  this  acting:  it  was 
the  apotheosis  of  make-believe. 

"Madam,  to  you  I  humbly  bow  and  bend." 

"Now,  Lizzie." 

"Nay,  sir,  I  take  you  not  to  be  my  friend." 

When  the  little  play  was  at  last  acted  through  without 
promptings,  it  was  a  huge  success  and  completely  carried 
away  the  audience.  Lizzie's  eyes  were  shining  and  her  face 
was  on  fire  with  excitement.  She  loved  acting :  as  soon  as  she 
grew  up  she  would  go  on  the  stage  and  be  an  actress.  Mean- 
time, she  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  about  it — happy,  radiant 
dreams. 

Mr.  Jack  was  just  as  nice,  nicer  if  possible,  next  holidays — 
or  vacation,  as  it  ought  to  be  called.  He  was  pleased  to  see  the 
garden  again,  and  to  play  in  it,  languidly,  because  of  the 
hot  weather,  with  his  "little  sweetheart."  That  was  the  name 
he  gave  Lizzie. 

But  many  weeks  before  this  long,  long  vacation  was  past, 
trouble  and  pain  began  to  brood  over  King's  Cottage.  Brother 
Dick,  who  was  in  business  now  with  his  father,  was  doing  far 
from  well  at  the  yard;  was  doing  very  ill.  He  was  unpunc- 
tual,  never  up  to  time  in  the  morning,  despite  of  all  efforts 


HILL  RISE  19 

made  by  Mrs.  Price  and  mamma  to  rouse  him.  He  stayed  out 
too  late  of  night  to  be  fresh  and  alert  at  a  seven-o'clock  break- 
fast. His  face  looked  pale  and  puffy — like  young  Mr.  Lard- 
ner's  face;  his  eyes  were  sometimes  bloodshot;  and  his  hand 
often  shook.  Too  often  he  had  such  a  headache  that  he  was 
compelled  to  stay  in  bed  till  noon.  Papa  looked  stern  and 
sad  when  these  headaches  were  mentioned.  Lizzie  heard  Mr. 
Jack  talking  of  the  headaches  to  Dick,  and  urging  his  friend 
very  earnestly  to  "pull  himself  together  and  drop  it."  Drop 
what?  Lizzie  wondered  for  a  moment  what  he  meant;  then, 
thought  she  understood.  Drop  staying  in  bed  when  one 
ought  to  be  up  and  about ! 

Then  came  shadows — deepening,  taking  the  gladness  from 
her  life.  Dick  was  in  disgrace — that  was  why  he  now  hung 
about  the  house  all  day  long.  He  had  disgraced  himself  at 
the  yard — was  suspended. 

Lying  awake  at  night,  she  thought  of  it,  cried  over  it. 
From  below  came  the  sound  of  angry  voices — father's  voice 
was  raised  in  hot  anger ;  and  she  lay  trembling.  Dick  was  in 
trouble;  mother  was  unhappy;  the  careless  joy  had  gone 
from  life. 

Then,  as  the  autumn  advanced,  it  seemed  that  all  her  little 
world  was  tumbling  into  chaotic  gloom.  Mrs.  Price  told  her 
of  things  coming.  Dick  was  to  be  given  another  chance.  She 
was  to  be  sent  to  school.  She  must  not  make  a  fuss,  because 
mamma  was  so  unhappy. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  garden,  she  told  Mr.  Jack  of  her 
almost  unbearable  distress.  There  had  been  no  games  to-day, 
although  the  visits  of  Mr.  Jack  had  become  rare  of  late,  and, 
now  that  they  had  him,  they  should  have  made  the  most  of 
him.  But  they  were  without  heart  for  play;  they  all  three 
sat  disconsolately  in  the  summerhouse,  and,  while  the  two 
young  men  smoked  their  pipes,  Lizzie  looked  out  at  the  roofs 
and  chimneys,  and  thought. 

It  was  as  though  Dick's  disgrace  was  something  visible, 
palpable,  far-reaching,  all-embracing.  It  had  spread  out  over 
her  and  smiling  Jack;  it  had  stretched  forth  like  a  dull  veil 
all  over  the  town  of  Medford.  The  sunlight  seemed  weak 
and  cheerless,  as  if  shining  through  mist;  the  flag  on  the 


20  HILL  RISE 

top  of  the  White  Hart  Hotel  had  lost  its  gaiety  and  bright 
colour;  the  zinc  dome  of  Selkirk's  big  drapery  establishment 
looked  ugly  and  ominous ;  the  brick  tower  of  the  brewery,  ris- 
ing above  the  slate  roofs  near  the  river,  was  dim  and  vague 
and  terrible.  Behind  her  the  dry  leaves  from  the  walnut  trees 
fell  or  stirred  on  the  path,  with  a  faint  crackling  sound.  It 
was  the  saddest  and  most  silent  autumn  day  that  she  had 
ever  known. 

Presently  Mrs.  Crunden,  coming  a  little  way  down  the  gar- 
den from  the  house,  called  to  Dick.  She  wanted  to  speak  to 
him,  it  appeared,  confidentially.  Dick  went  to  his  mother's 
call,  and  sullenly,  with  hands  in  pockets,  walked  by  her  side 
to  the  house. 

Then  Lizzie  told  Jack  of  her  pain.  She  sat  on  Jack's 
knee,  and,  with  her  arms  round  his  neck,  sobbed  out  all  the 
trouble. 

".  .  .  And — and  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school.  I  shall  die 
if  I  am  sent  away." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Jack,  "you'll  like  it— after  a  bit." 

"Never,"  sobbed  Lizzie.  "But  I  must  go  because  Mrs.  Price 
says  it  makes  mother  unhappy.  And,  oh,  I  am  so  unhappy ! 
Oh,  Jack — can't  you  help  us?" 

"What  can  I  'do?"  said  Jack.  "I'd  do  anything  in  the 
world  for  my  little  sweetheart." 

"You  do  really  love  us  ?"  sobbed  Lizzie.  "That's  not  make- 
believe,  is  it?" 

"Of  course  it  isn't." 

Mr.  Jack  stroked  her  soft  hair ;  with  his  silk  handkerchief 
dried  her  wet  eyes;  with  kind,  consoling  words  endeavoured 
to  bring  her  ease  of  mind.  She  was  in  fact  easier  for  his 
sympathy;  and,  ere  Dick  joined  them  again,  a  smile  of  hope 
flickered  about  her  trembling  lips  and  through  the  final  in- 
stalment of  her  tears. 

"I  would  do  anything,"  said  Jack  fervently,  "for  you  and 
poor  old  Dick." 

"Would  you?"  said  Lizzie. 

"Yes,  my  little  sweetheart." 

"Then,  will  you  marry  me  when  I'm  grown-up  ?  I'd  like  to 
know  we  were  going  to  be  married  when  I  am  grown-up." 


HILL  RISE  21 

This  proposal  made  Jack  laugh,  but  he  immediately  prom- 
ised to  do  what  was  asked. 

"All  right.    If  you  grow  up  quick  enough,  I  will." 

Further  discussion  of  this  grand  plan  was  prevented  by  the 
return  of  Dick.  His  was  a  most  ungrateful  and  embarrassing 
task.  Father  was  expected  to  be  home  for  tea,  and  Mrs. 
Crunden  had  reason  to  apprehend  that  if  father  found  Mr. 
Jack  here,  he  would  be  upset — that,  forgetting  the  laws  of 
politeness  and  the  deference  which  habitually  he  paid  to  high 
social  position,  he  might  even  invite  the  illustrious  visitor  to 
cease  honouring  the  house  with  visits.  Father  was  firmly 
persuaded  that  the  friendship  of  this  young  prince  had  a 
large  share  in  unsettling  Dick  and  rendering  him  averse  to 
honest  toil. 

"So  I/'  said  Dick,  flushing  indignantly  and  with  gloomy 
scorn  for  his  parent,  "am  commissioned  to  ask  you  to  go.  .  .  . 
There's  manners  for  you.  They  may  well  call  him  'Hedgehog 
Crunden.' '; 

Mr.  Jack,  picking  up  his  straw  hat  and  putting  away  his 
pipe  and  pouch,  reproved  Dick  for  sneering  at  his  father.  He 
quite  understood  Mr.  Crunden's  feelings;  he  was  not  in  the 
least  offended. 

"Your  Guv'nor,"  he  said,  "thinks  I  put  you  off  your  work. 
That's  why  he  bars  me.  .  .  .  But  you  might  tell  him,  old 
chap,  that  I  have  given  you  the  best  advice  I  could ;"  and  he 
got  up  and  stretched  himself.  "I  have,  haven't  I?  Though 
I'm  such  a  lazy  beggar  myself,  I  know  work's  a  good  thing. 
I  admire  it,  if  I  don't  do  it;"  and  he  smiled  at  Dick  and 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Take  my  tip,  old  boy;  make 
it  up  with  your  Guv'nor,  and  drop — you  know  what." 
And  smilingly,  but  very  kindly,  he  bade  adieu  to  Dick's  little 
sister. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Lizzie,"  and  he  kissed  her.  "We  shan't 
meet  again  now — because  we  are  both  wanted  at  school." 

And  that  was  the  end  of  his  last  visit. 

Then  came  tragedy. 

It  was  only  a  few  nights  afterwards.  Dick  was  out  at 
supper  time.  Father  waited  supper  for  Dick;  would  not  let 


22  HILL  RISE 

them  start  the  meal  till  half  an  hour  had  slowly  dragged  by. 
Then  the  silent  meal  began  in  heavy  gloom.  Mamma's  face 
was  white  and  sad;  her  eyes  were  ever  on  the  door;  Mrs. 
Price  had  slipped  out  by  the  kitchen  entrance,  was  trotting 
down  the  road  to  look  for  Dick. 

To-day  Dick  had  returned  to  the  yard,  had  been  given  his 
other  chance.  To-night,  as  mamma  knew,  his  father  had  wished 
to  speak  kindly  to  him,  to  put  heart  into  him,  to  implore 
him  to  stick  to  it,  shove  his  back  into  it,  and  make  them 
all  proud  of  him.  At  the  friendly  evening  meal,  in  the  pleas- 
ant candlelight,  there  was  to  be  reconciliation,  drawing  to- 
gether of  bonds,  oblivion  for  past  offence,  affectionate  trust 
in  future  peace.  That  was  the  programme;  and  Dick  had 
missed  his  cue,  had  failed  to  appear  when  the  curtain  had 
risen  upon  the  homely  little  scene. 

The  delayed  supper  was  done.  Very  little  food  was  chok- 
ingly sufficient  to-night.  Mrs.  Price,  following  Jane  into  the 
room,  by  secret  signals  made  known  to  mamma  that  her  quest 
had  been  fruitless.  In  flat  tones  she  asked  her  usual  question : 

"Shall  we  clear  away  the  things?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Crunden ;  "leave  his  place.  Leave  the  food, 
but  make  the  table  tidy.  He  ought  to  be  sharp-set  by  now." 
And  Mrs.  Crunden  had  a  wan  smile  of  gratitude  for  father's 
enduring  kindness. 

Then  at  last  Dick  came  lurching  in — Dick  and  not  Dick — 
thick  of  speech,  glassy  of  eye,  wanting  no  supper. 

There  was  a  most  dreadful  scene — instead  of  the  planned 
reconciliation — between  father  and  son.  Lizzie  was  hurried 
away,  taken  up  to  bed  by  Mrs.  Price,  tremblingly  aided  to 
undress,  told  to  cease  sobbing  and  to  pray  for  better  fortune — 
while  from  below  came  the  sounds  of  the  voices — mother's, 
father's,  brother's  voice — grief,  anger,  and  drunken  folly  in 
chorus.  Even  Mrs.  Price,  within  sound  of  that  chorus,  could 
not  say  now  that  things  would  come  all  right  in  the 
end. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  Dick  came  into  the  bedroom, 
woke  Lizzie,  and  kissed  her  tear-stained  face. 

"Good-bye,  Lizzie,"  he  whispered.  The  grey  dawn  was 
creeping  into  the  room;  all  was  shadowy  and  vague,  includ- 


HILL  RISE  23 

ing  Dick  himself — it  seemed  to  her  like  a  most  horrible 
dream;  but  she  clung  to  him,  in  a  frenzy  of  love  and  fear, 
to  hold  him  with  her. 

"Good-bye,  dear.  I  have  had  enough  of  it.  Father  showed 
me  the  street  door  last  night — but  I  wasn't  in  a  state  to  see 
it.  I'm  all  right  now — I  can  steer  my  way  through  it 
now.  .  .  .  Tell  mother  not  to  worry  or  make  a  fuss.  I'll 
write  to  her  as  soon  as  I  am  settled." 

She  clung  to  him,  but  he  gently  unloosed  her  arms  and 
again  bade  her  good-bye. 

"Go  to  sleep,  Lizzie — but  don't  forget  my  message.  Tell 
your  mother  not  to  worry." 

As  in  a  dream  he  went  from  her;  leaving  her  sobbing  and 
shaking  in  the  grey  shadows,  with  the  cold,  cheerless  day- 
light feebly  fighting  the  shadows.  The  sun  would  never  really 
shine  again.  Dick  had  gone  from  them  forever.  The  wide 
universe  was  crumbling  into  ruin,  was  falling  into  chaos, 
all  about  her  little  bed. 

Then  Lizzie  went  to  school,  at  Eastbourne;  and  exactly 
what  Jack  had  foretold  came  to  pass — after  a  bit  she  liked  it. 

When  she  returned  for  the  first  holidays,  Dick  had  not  come 
back,  and  her  mother  was  ailing.  Mr.  Jack  never  visited  the 
house  now,  and  Mrs.  Price  could  give  no  authentic  news 
of  him.  He  was  a  creature  of  another  race,  who  had  de- 
scended from  a  cloud-girt  mountain  and  returned  through 
the  cloud  to  the  eternal  sunshine  on  the  mountain  top — 
regretted  by  those  who  had  been  privileged  to  see  him — very, 
very  much  regretted  by  Lizzie. 

Doomed,  unhappy  Dick  never  made  his  peace  with  an  out- 
raged, disappointed  father.  He  never  pulled  himself  together ; 
he  never  "dropped  it."  Mr.  Crunden  was  only  waiting  for 
time  to  bring  back  the  truant.  He  only  desired  penitence, 
acknowledgment  of  wrongdoing,  a  prayer  for  pardon,  and 
he  would  have  forgiven  the  culprit.  But  Dick  must  make 
the  first  move.  Mr.  Crunden  was  obdurate  here:  no  tears 
from  the  mother  could  wash  away  his  purpose.  "Let  him 
have  his  lesson.  It's  our  only  chance  of  doing  anything  with 
him.  When  he's  had  his  lesson,  we  can  start  fair." 


24  HILL  RISE 

Time,  however,  would  not  help  them.  It  seemed  that  in 
the  cruel  world-school  that  Dick  had  entered,  there  were  two 
headmasters — Life  and  Death.  It  was  Death,  and  not  Life, 
that  completed  miserable  Dick's  lesson.  A  letter  from  a  Lon- 
don hospital  told  Mr.  Crunden  to  cease  hoping  that  he  would 
ever  have  what  his  own  father  had — an  E.  Crunden,  Junior — 
to  carry  on  the  business. 

Lizzie,  at  Eastbourne,  was  instructed  to  dress  in  black. 
Mrs.  Price,  conveying  the  grievous  tidings,  said  that  Lizzie 
must  wear  black  for  a  year.  But  in  fact  she  wore  it  much 
longer:  for  three  long  years.  She  was  motherless  ere  the 
appointed  time  of  mourning  for  Dick  was  fulfilled. 

"Lizzie,  you  must  be  brave,"  said  red-eyed,  broken-voiced 
Mrs.  Price;  "you  must  be  brave  now  for  your  poor  father's 
sake.  You  and  him  is  all  there  is  left  in  the  world,  and  you 
two  should  be  all  the  world  to  each  other." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Lizzie,  sobbing  and  gulping  and  trembling. 
"He'll  keep  me  with  him  now,  won't  he?  He'll  let  me  stay 
here  now?" 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  "he  wants  you  to  go  on 
with  your  learning — finish  all  your  grand  education  like — 
and  not  feel  the  sadness  of  this  house." 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  stay  with  him." 

"No,  my  dear,  you  must  do  as  he  says.  You'll  help  him 
best  later — nothing  can  help  him  now.  He'll  be  winding  up 
his  business — completing  of  all  his  jobs  and  then  retiring." 

Thus  Mr.  Crunden  went  about  his  day's  task  as  of  old — a 
hard,  silent,  grey  man,  who  had  a  strip  of  crape  round  the 
sleeve  of  his  old  grey  jacket,  who  had  a  band  of  black  cloth 
round  his  square  felt  hat.  Outwardly  that  was  the  change  in 
him.  Something  of  a  hedgehog  he  seemed  perhaps  to  the 
town  of  Medford,  even  while  his  grief  was  new. 

And  Lizzie,  leaving  the  house  of  woe,  went  back  to  her 
classroom,  text-books,  and  synopsis-writing,  to  the  walking 
exercise,  the  dancing  lessons,  the  romping  games,  the  chatter- 
ing nonsense  of  the  Eastbourne  seminary.  She  was  heart- 
broken: if  she  lived  to  a  hundred,  she  could  never  be  happy 
again.  Sorrow  had  almost  snapped  the  strong  thread  of  her 
existence,  or  so  she  thought. 


HILL  RISE  25 

But  the  soft  sea  wind  blew  over  her  head,  aiming  now  herer 
now  there,  to  the  East,  to  the  West,  to  the  North;  and  it 
carried  her  thoughts  with  it,  and  left  them  as  it  dropped 
to  rest,  now  here,  now  there.  The  seasons  glided,  changing 
as  they  passed  her.  Things  that  seemed  dead  sprang  to  life 
again:  all  that  was  old  faded,  dropped  away,  vanished;  and  in 
its  place  was  freshness,  strangeness,  newness.  Nothing  was 
permanent,  durable,  retainable:  not  even  the  glamour  of  & 
favourite  novel,  the  admired  fashion  of  a  hat,  the  reflection 
of  one's  face  in  the  glass. 

One  day  the  girls  walked  far  by  the  shore,  and  shivered 
as  they  gazed  at  the  stranded  ship.  There  were  the  bare 
masts  and  torn  shrouds  slanting  upward  from  the  fierce 
waves,  to  tell  them  more  plainly  the  tale  they  had  already 
heard  of  death  and  disaster.  That  was  a  winter  walk. 

They  came  along  the  shore  again,  to  the  same  point,  and 
saw  no  trace  of  the  wreck.  The  sea  was  glassy  silver,  sparkling 
into  fire  where  little  lazy  ripples  broke  beneath  the  sunshine; 
above  the  smooth  sands  and  the  smooth  water,  white  birds 
were  soaring,  flapping,  turning.  The  birds  might  have  been 
the  spirits  of  the  drowned  men — there  was  nothing  else  to 
tell  one  of  the  old  tale.  That  was  a  walk  in  summer. 

Lizzie,  thinking  of  it,  thought  of  her  wrecked  home,  of 
the  storm  of  grief  and  horror  that  had  swept  over  her  happy 
childhood's  home. 

She  remained  at  the  seaside  school  till  she  was  eighteen, 
till  she  was  a  pretty  and  immensely  erudite  girl,  with  many 
rare  accomplishments  as  well  as  a  kind  heart,  with  really 
charming  manners  and  only  one  bad  secret  habit — not  perhaps 
uncommon  with  girls  of  her  age — the  habit  of  day-dreaming. 

It  chanced  that  on  her  last  journey  from  school  an  old 
acquaintance  was  in  the  train.  At  a  place  where  the  train 
stopped  just  outside  Eastbourne,  a  militia  camp  had  broken 
up ;  the  platform  was  full  of  soldiers — officers  and  their  men, 
in  uniform.  And  this  tall,  sunburnt  officer  saying  good-bye 
to  the  others  was  Mr.  Jack  Vincent.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
for  a  moment  was  in  doubt;  then  she  was  quite  sure.  He 
passed  the  carriage  window  and  glanced  in  at  her,  but  he  did 
not  recognise  her — did  not  remember  her.  Even  at  Medford 


26  HILL  RISE 

station,  when  they  were  both  pointing  out  their  luggage  to  the 
porters,  he  failed  to  recognise  his  ancient  playmate. 

She  blushed  faintly  as  she  realised  that  he  had  altogether 
forgotten  her.  But  then  she  blushed  deeply  as  she  thought 
that  no  doubt  he  had  also  forgotten  her  most  impudent  pro- 
posal. Thank  goodness  for  that.  It  had  been  a  dreadful 
thing  to  say — even  for  a  child  of  fourteen. 


CHAPTER  II 

VIEWED  from  a  commercial  standpoint,  the  town  of  Med- 
ford  was  sluggish  as  its  little  winding  river  and  sleepy  as 
the  gentle  southern  air.  Though  so  near  London — only 
twenty-six  miles  by  the  railway,  which  did  not  go  straight — 
there  was  about  it  nothing  of  the  hurry,  push,  and  bounce 
of  London.  A  black-coated  throng  came  out  of  it  every  morn- 
ing, and  as  clerks,  etc.,  went  to  work  in  London — to  spend 
their  energy  there;  and  in  the  evening  they  came  back  to 
Medford — to  sleep.  A  drowsy  torpor  seemed  to  hang  over 
its  trade  and  its  business  life,  although,  in  fact,  the  place 
was  not  unprosperous.  Eents  were  not  low  and  rates  were 
very  high,  yet  people  paid  both  contentedly.  There  was  no 
staple  industry,  but  the  success  of  such  shops  as  Selkirk's,  the 
big  draper's  in  High  Street,  indicated  considerable  buying 
power ;  the  brewery  down  by  the  river  was  a  thriving  concern ; 
and,  on  the  flats  beyond,  the  concrete  works  and  the  two  or 
three  brick-and-tile  yards  kept  hundreds  of  hands  employed, 
and  sent  away  large  consignments  of  their  stuff  both  by 
water  and  by  rail. 

Socially  considered,  the  town  divided  itself — after  the  man- 
ner of  so  many  English  country  towns — into  those  who  lived 
on  the  hill  and  those  who  lived"  on  the  low  ground.  Coming 
from  the  railway  to  the  river  bridge,  you  passed  through  the 
worst  and  the  oldest  quarter.  Here  were  narrow  streets,  lanes, 
and  courts;  backways  and  blind  alleys;  dirty  wives  in  door- 
ways, and  dirty  children  in  the  gutter.  If  you  paused  on  the 
bridge,  you  could  see  on  your  right  brewery  buildings,  ware- 
houses, and  modern  workmen's  dwellings;  on  your  left,  the 
backs  of  the  houses  in  High  Street,  sheds,  store-places,  etc., 
with  here  and  there  an  old  garden  and  a  slimy  wall  and  steps 
above  the  slow  stream.  Thence  onward,  through  Bridge 
Street,  you  went  uphill.  On  your  left  lay  High  Street,  the 

27 


28  HILL  RISE 

Market,  the  White  Hart,  the  Town  Hall,  etc.  On  your  right 
there  were  at  first  cottages,  then  common  little  villas,  then 
terraces  and  parades  and  crescents  of  superior  villas — the 
new  red-brick  area  of  respectability,  if  not  of  real  gentility, 
from  which  came  forth  the  black-coated  London  toilers.  Then, 
on  either  hand,  were  larger,  more  imposing  villas  and  houses, 
with  fussy  architectural  ornaments,  pepper-pot  turrets,  cu- 
polas, loggias,  large  gates,  and  miniature  carriage  sweeps. 
Here  resided  gentry.  Then,  in  a  moment,  you  had  the  wide 
meadows  behind  Hill  Eise — the  Lawn  Tennis,  Croquet,  and 
Archery  Club,  its  smooth  lawns,  basket  chairs,  and  thatched 
cottage  and  tiled  veranda.  Then,  with  a  sharp  turn  to  the 
right,  you  were  in  Hill  Eise  itself — ten  noble  detached  houses 
on  either  side ;  and  at  the  top  the  walls,  gate,  and  trees  of  Hill 
House,  with  nothing  beyond  it  but  open  country :  the  stretch- 
ing common  land,  the  flagstaff,  the  golf  links,  and  the  beech- 
woods  and  hazel  copses  and  deep  sylvan  recesses  owned  by 
the  Crown,  and  let  to  Mr.  Wace,  the  brewer,  for  the 
shooting. 

In  truth,  the  hill  was  nothing  worth  boasting  about.  The 
Golf  Clubhouse  was  exactly  eighty-seven  feet  above  the  river. 
But  the  eminence  was  sufficient  for  its  purpose — to  keep  peo- 
ple in  their  proper  places.  The  higher  you  lived  up  the  hill, 
the  higher  you  stood  socially.  Sir  John  Vincent  lived  right 
on  top — at  Hill  House — and  he  was  highest  of  all.  As  to  Hill 
Eise,  just  below  Sir  John — even  numbers  to  your  left,  odd 
numbers  to  your  right — although  the  ground  rose,  one  might 
perhaps  say  that  the  social  plane  was  horizontal.  The  people 
of  Hill  Eise  would  not  admit  any  differences;  they  were  the 
aristocracy  of  the  place. 

Hill  House  and  its  ten  acres  belonged  to  Sir  John,  and  all 
the  twenty  houses  below  him ;  while  all  the  park-like  meadows 
behind  the  odd  numbers  belonged  to  the  Dowager  Countess  of 
Haddenham.  Behind  the  gardens  of  the  even  numbers  was 
the  breezy,  open  common — a  pleasant  sunlit  expanse  speckled 
with  sheep  in  their  white  woollen  coats,  and  with  golfers 
in  their  red  flannel  jackets, — and  all  this  belonged  to  the 
Crown.  Thus  one  had  on  either  side  of  the  houses  a  wide 
belt  of  green  to  guard  one  from  encroachment  by  the  vulgar 


HILL  RISE  29 

town.  It  was  really  aristocratic  if  you  came  to  think  of  it: 
The  three  landowners  were  the  Sovereign,  the  Countess, 
and  Sir  John.  No  wonder  the  hill  thought  something  of 
itself. 

It  was  pleasant  to  have  a  countess  for  your  landlady,  and 
the  privilege  was  appreciated.  She  lived  far  away — in  her 
midland  county, — and  no  one  ever  enjoyed  the  sight  of  her 
or  speech  with  her.  All  business  was  done  in  the  grandest 
style — through  a  London  firm  of  solicitors,  who  sealed  their 
letters,  printed  the  agreements,  never  raised  your  rent,  saw 
that  the  property  was  kept  up  at  my  lady's  charge,  and  were 
only  particular  that  you  sent  the  quarter's  cheque  promptly 
when,  after  a  dignified  delay,  you  received  the  official  notice. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  deal  with  such  people.  Old  Mr.  Garrett, 
of  No.  5,  himself  a  retired  solicitor,  could  tell  you  about 
Messrs.  Firmin  &  Firmin:  of  the  weight  and  splendour  of 
such  a  firm,  who  acted  for  half-a-dozen  other  great  clients 
as  well  as  for  the  Countess  Dowager. 

No  difficulties  were  ever  made.  You  had  merely  to  ask  for 
what  you  wanted  in  a  proper  and  becoming  manner.  New 
bath,  new  kitchen  range,  new  paint  and  wallpaper  from  roof 
to  cellar — rthese  were  slight  favours  habitually  craved  when 
you  sent  in  your  prompt  cheque:  favours  granted  almost  as 
a  matter  of  course  by  any  humble  clerk  in  the  great  solicitors' 
office.  For  instance,  when  the  select  and  successful  Tennis 
Club  was  founded,  no  question  was  raised  as  to  the  propriety 
of  granting  the  use  of  the  rich  grazing  ground  behind  the  odd 
numbers  on  the  easiest,  practically  nominal,  terms.  The 
noble  landlady,  indeed,  without  being  approached  on  the 
subject,  transmitted  through  her  deputies  a  handsome  dona- 
tion towards  the  cost  of  levelling  the  fields  from  which  she 
was  renouncing  future  profit. 

When  things  seemed  to  demand  discussion — when  tenants 
had  a  fancy  for  structural  changes  or  additions — there  would 
come  down,  for  suave  debate,  Mr.  Abinger.  He  was  a  sort  of 
splendid  surveyor  or  steward — not  really  a  gentleman,  but 
just  like  a  gentleman, — known  to  all  tenants  as  "Mr.  A.," 
welcomed  by  all,  and  entertained  hospitably  by  all.  Indeed,  as 
he  drove  up  in  his  fly  from  the  station  and  turned  into  Hill 


30  HILL  RISE 

Else,  one  might  say  there  were  twenty  hot  luncheons  wait- 
ing for  him. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Abinger,"  the  tenants  would  say.  They  were 
all  the  same  in  their  welcome  to  Mr.  A.  Warm-tempered 
Admiral  Lardner,  haughty  Colonel  Beaumont,  old  Mrs.  Pad- 
field,  who  was  a  very  difficult  lady,  Mrs.  Granville,  Mrs.  Page, 
etc.,  they  all  made  much  of  Mr.  A. ;  meeting  him  in  the  hall, 
ordering  servants  to  take  his  overcoat  and  rug  and  umbrella, 
ushering  him  forthwith  to  the  dining-room. 

"Sit  ye  down,  Mr.  Abinger.  Not  a  word  of  business  till 
you've  had  a  snack  of  lunch.  You  must  be  famished  after 
your  journey.  No  hurry  about  my  little  affair.  I  know  I  am 
in  good  hands.  I  leave  the  decision  to  you  absolutely.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  wish,  and  I  won't  press  it.  But  I  believe  you'll 
decide  that  what  I  am  asking  is  not  unreasonable." 

On  several  occasions  this  magnificent  steward  lunched  with 
Sir  John  at  Hill  House;  and  twice  or  thrice  even  had  the 
honour  of  sitting  at  meat  with  Lady  Vincent.  Although, 
of  course,  Sir  John  was  not  a  tenant,  it  seemed  fit  that  he 
should  entertain  Mr.  A.  He  was  the  owner  of  the  adjoining 
freehold — the  next  big  landowner  (omitting  the  Crown),  the 
man  of  rank  highest  and  nearest  to  the  exalted  rank  of  the 
Countess. 

And  doubtless  Sir  John  talked  pleasantly  enough  to  the 
guest — keeping  his  proper  distance,  yet  throwing  over  light 
bridges  of  conversation  to  enable  Mr.  A.  to  advance  and  retire. 
Mr.  A.  never  forgot,  never  presumed. 

"How  is  her  ladyship,  Mr.  Abinger?" 

"Wonderful — no  other  word  for  it.  I  was  down  at  Bur- 
roughclere  last  week," — and  Sir  John  would  nod  his  head 
as  though  he  were  familiar  with  Burroughclere,  Lady  Had- 
denham's  majestic  country-seat, — "bitter  bleak  morning — 
but  there  was  my  lady  in  her  pony-carriage  to  meet  me  at 
every  turn.  'Mr.  Abinger/  she  said,  'I  like  to  see  for  my- 
self. I  don't  like  giving  things  up.' '; 

"Ah,  well,  Mr.  Abinger," — this  would  be  after  fitting  com- 
pliments for  conveyance  to  the  aged  Countess  when  oppor- 
tunity offered, — "these  old  ladies  are  like  creaking  doors :  they 
hang  on." 


HILL  RISE  31 

And  then  perhaps  Sir  John  told  Mr.  A.  about  that  most 
notorious  creaking  door,  his  old  cousin  at  Bournemouth. 
Everybody  knew  about  her.  When  she  died,  her  money  would 
come  to  Sir  John.  It  was  all  settled:  she  couldn't  leave  it 
away  from  him,  hut  she  could  keep  him  waiting  for  it — 
and  she  did  so.  She  was  deplorably  afflicted — a  dreadful 
paralysis.  First  she  lost  the  use  of  her  feet,  then  of  her 
hands,  etc. 

"Heaven  knows,"  said  Sir  John,  "I  would  not  hasten  any 
one's  end — or  wish  any  one  out  of  the  way  for  the  paltry 
money.  But — poor  old  dear! — I  ask  you  what  pleasure  can 
she  have  in  life?" 

Lady  Vincent,  the  kindest  of  women,  would  agree — would 
be  constrained  to  own  that  neither  life  nor  paltry  cash  could 
be  of  much  value  to  poor  dear  cousin  Harriet,  though  she 
still  clung  to  both. 

Young  ladies  at  the  tennis,  opening  large  eyes  as  they  talked 
of  Sir  John's  cousin,  said  the  money  was  anything  but 
paltry. 

"I  do  call  it  rough  luck  on  Sir  John." 

"But  he  doesn't  want  it.  He  is  rich  enough  already.  He 
must  be  very  rich." 

"Yes;  but  it  is  nice  to  become  richer — however  rich  you 
are." 

"What  could  he  do  with  it?" 

"Anyhow,  young  Mr.  Vincent  could  spend  it.  He  could 
marry  and  have  a  fine  establishment  of  his  own.  He  is  old 
enough  to  do  that." 

"I  don't  believe,"  said  a  young  lady  with  wistful  eyes,  "that 
Mr.  Jack  will  ever  marry." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  fond  of  girls." 

One  could  not  blame  these  young  ladies  of  the  Hill  for 
the  wistfulness  in  their  eyes  or  the  tone  of  deep  respect  in 
their  voices  when  they  came  thus  to  speak  of  money:  because 
throughout  Hill  Eise  there  was  not  much  ready  cash,  and 
nearly  all  that  there  was  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  sons  and 
little  enough  was  left  for  the  daughters. 


32  HILL  RISE 

The  heads  of  families  were  gentry — neither  more  nor  less. 
They  based  on  this  proud  title  all  their  pompful  pretensions, 
and  never  asked  the  world  to  believe  that  they  were  secret  mil- 
lionaires. Mr.  Garrett,  although  a  solicitor,  was  a  man  of  good 
family;  Dr.  Blake,  who  practised  medicine,  was  extremely 
well-connected;  these  were  the  only  two  residents  tainted  with 
damaging  derogatory  professions,  and  on  the  plea  of  good 
birth  they  were  pardoned.  For  the  rest,  there  were  Admiral 
Lardner,  Colonel  Beaumont,  Major  Meldew,  Captain  Sholto, 
and  so  on;  Mrs.  Granville  and  Mrs.  Padfield.  and  other 
widows ;  the  three  Miss  Vigors,  who  made  a  joint  household  of 
No.  10,  and  who  were  so  religious  that  if  you  wished  to  see 
them  your  better  chance  would  be  to  seek  them  rather  in  the 
church  of  St.  Barnabas  than  in  their  own  home,  etc.,  etc. — all 
gentlefolk  from  No.  1  to  No.  20. 

There  were  many  sons  and  daughters;  every  house 
possessed  its  second  generation — except,  of  course,  the  house 
of  the  Misses  Vigor — to  carry  on  the  good  Hill  traditions. 
The  Hill  Eise  girls  had  a  splendid  style  of  their  own,  a 
manner  and  tone  which  might  be  imitated  by  the  rest  of 
the  community,  but  which  could  not  be  reproduced.  They 
ran  in  upon  one  another  from  house  to  house;  they  called 
each  other  by  their  Christian  name;  they  were  really  one 
large  family  though  not  under  one  roof. 

They  were  neglected,  almost  ignored,  by  their  brothers; 
but  they  had  their  own  little  sports — the  golf,  the  tennis, 
rides  with  Mr.  Banker  the  riding-master,  and,  one  may  sup- 
pose, their  own  little  love  affairs,  which  culminated — one  out 
of  each  five  hundred — in  orange  wreath  and  organ  music: 
a  real  Hill  Eise  wedding  with  red  cloth,  beadle,  and  police- 
man at  St.  Barnabas',  with  all  the  town  girls  hurrying  up 
the  hill  to  see  the  rare  and  brave  sight  of  the  Hill  Eise  young 
men  in  toppers  and  black  coats,  with  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Vincent  driving  down  from  Hill  House  in  the  victoria  and 
pair,  cockaded  coachman  and  footman  in  white  gloves  on  the 
box-seat. 

They  were  happy,  high-spirited  girls  in  spite  of  brotherly 
inattention;  and  they  could  reflect  that  they  had  all  other 
girls  in  the  universe  beneath  Hill  Eise  to  look  down  upon. 


HILL  RISE  33 

Beyond  this  comforting  reflection,  perhaps  from  year  to  year 
the  dominant  thought  of  their  lives  was  Selkirk — the  old- 
established  fashionable  draper.  Proud  as  they  were,  they 
might  all  have  been  described  as  the  slaves  of  Selkirk:  they 
brought  him  all  the  pennies  they  could  scrape  together.  If 
uncles  or  aunts  promised  them  a  present,  they  pleaded  to 
have  it  in  coin.  You  see,  they  wanted  something  to  take 
to  Selkirk,  and  Selkirk  would  not  exchange  a  cuckoo-clock  or 
a  Macaulay's  Essays  for  his  tulle  veils,  motor  hats,  and  gauze 
clouds. 

They  did  not  realise  that  they  were  slaves,  and  yet  could 
plainly  see  that  their  neglectful  brothers  suffered  from  a  Sel- 
kirk bondage.  Dr.  Blake's  son,  Mrs.  Granville's  son,  Geoff 
Garrett,  Tommy  Page,  and  the  others,  too,  openly  carried 
on  with  the  shop-girls.  The  shoppies  from  Selkirk's  some- 
times insisted  upon  a  parade  in  public  places  with  their  ad- 
mirers, made  good  their  claim  to  dog-cart  drives,  a  trip  to 
London  for  the  pantomime,  or  other  expensive  treat  beyond 
the  ambition  of  mere  sisters.  The  young  ladies  of  the  Hill 
well  knew  about  these  philanderings  of  their  brothers  and 
friends'  brothers.  The  young  men  had  a  most  dreadful  ex- 
pression: All  right.  "I  say.  Is  Lottie" — or  Florrie,  as  the 
case  might  be — "is  Lottie  all  right  ?  I  wish  you'd  tell  me,  be- 
cause I  don't  want  to  waste  my  time.  Is  she  all  right?"  It 
may  be  surmised  that — from  the  point  of  view  of  strictest 
propriety — all  right  meant  all  wrong. 

The  high-spirited  young  ladies  of  the  Hill  knew  also  of 
this  odious  phrase,  and  used  it,  amongst  themselves,  aptly 
and  effectively. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  one  of  them,  after  the  Tennis  Club  ball, 
"don't  talk  about  my  sitting  out  with  Captain  Biddulph!  I 
had  to  ask  him  to  conduct  me  to  my  mamma.  He  went  on 
as  though  he  was  under  the  impression  that  I  was  'All 
right.' " 

Then  the  Hill  young  ladies  giggled  for  ten  minutes. 
Amongst  themselves  they  were  great  gigglers. 

The  Hill  Rise  young  men — the  sons  of  the  widows  espe- 
cially— were  born  loafers.  They  seemed  lazily  but  supremely 


34  HILL  RISE 

content  to  loaf  through  life :  they  wished  they  were  immortal 
and  could  go  on  loafing  forever. 

Their  parents  felt  that  there  might  be  a  loss  of  prestige, 
but  there  would  certainly  be  a  great  economical  gain  if  they 
would  go  away  and  work — even  at  common  trades.  But  they 
never  did  work  of  any  kind.  For  this  reason  they  were  de- 
barred from  entering  the  army  or  navy — because  of  the 
examinations.  They  rarely  tried — they  always  failed,  to 
pass  an  examination.  Sometimes,  when  one  of  them  loafed 
into  difficulties, — entanglement  of  small  debts,  excessive  con- 
viviality, altercations  with  the  local  police,  etc., — Hill  Eise 
made  a  gigantic  effort  and  packed  him  off  to  the  other  side  of 
the  world — Australian  sheep-walk,  California  garden,  Cana- 
dian ranche, — the  farther  away  the  better.  But,  before  you 
could  look  around,  he  was  back  again.  "I  have  arrived,"  he 
wrote  from  the  distant  goal,  "though  have  not  yet  shaken 
down.  I  cannot  say  I  am  eaten  up  with  this  place,  in  spite  of 
all  their  gas  about  it."  Then,  ere  his  comrades  had  fairly 
missed  him,  he  once  more  joined  their  ranks. 

"Who  do  you  think  I  met  just  now  coming  out  of  the 
White  Hart  ?  Old  Val !  Yes — looking  as  fit  as  a  fiddle — and 
jolly  glad,  he  said,  to  be  safe  home  in  dear  old  Medford." 

They  loved  Medford.  Away  from  it  they  pined;  nostalgic 
longings  made  them  restless  and  uneasy  even  during  the 
course  of  a  day  in  London,  and  they  found  it  painful  to  wait 
for  the  appointed  return  train.  It  was  never  the  last  train 
of  all.  When  safe  in  Medford  they  felt  at  peace :  time  and  the 
years  could  not  touch  them;  the  long,  easeful,  loafing  days 
glided  by  and  there  was  no  need  to  count  them. 

In  heart  and  mind  they  never  grew  up.  They  were  young 
men  always — with  the  boyish  immature  thoughts  unchanged, 
the  youthful  foolish  cravings  never  satiated.  The  very  young 
men  played  games — golf,  cricket,  lawn  tennis,  even  croquet. 
The  older  young  men  watched  the  games.  They  had  not 
become  weary  of  games.  Only  laziness  made  them  onlookers 
rather  than  performers.  But  for  the  fag  of  the  thing,  they 
would  have  been  willing  to  spin  tops  or  blow  soap-bubbles. 
When  it  came  to  loafing  they  were  all  one — old  and  young — 
boys  together. 


HILL  RISE  35 

Thus,  indolent,  good-natured  Mr.  Vincent  of  Hill  House — 
the  prince  of  the  loafers — was  getting  on  for  thirty.  Mr. 
Page  and  Mr.  Granville  were  under  twenty.  Mr.  Lardner, — 
of  the  puffy,  white  face, — who  had  thrice  suffered  eclipse  in  a 
home  for  young  gentlemen  who  take  too  much  whiskey  and 
soda,  was  forty.  Yet  his  diurnal  bliss  was  unabated  as  with 
slow  footsteps  he  sauntered  towards  the  railway  station  to 
procure  an  illustrated  sporting  paper,  paused  as  of  yore  at  the 
familiar  corner  in  High  Street  to  wave  his  hat  to  the  upper 
window  where  Selkirk's  work-girls  stood  grinning,  or  sat  him- 
self down  in  the  railway  refreshment-room  and  gulped  his 
favourite  beverage.  Mr.  Eidgworth  was  nearer  fifty  than 
forty ;  he  was  red  and  fat  and  bald ;  he  knew  the  meaning  of 
gout  and  rheumatism ;  and  yet,  at  sight  of  two  well-powdered, 
drab-complexioned,  draggle-tailed  chorus  girls  of  a  Z  com- 
pany newly  arrived,  he  would  start  from  the  tobacconist's 
counter  against  which  he  had  been  lolling  and  sally  forth 
in  pursuit  with  all  the  keenness  of  callow  youth  for  the 
stale  old  cheese. 

"Marked  'em  down,"  he  would  report,  when  in  half  an  hour 
he  returned  to  the  tobacco  shop  to  resume  his  chat  with  the 
tobacconist  and  another  lolling  customer.  "Marked  'em  down 
to  their  diggin's — No.  3  Bridge  Terrace.  I  don't  say  they're 
all  right.  That  I  can't  say.  But,"  added  Mr.  Eidgworth, 
who  was  old  enough  to  know  so  very  much  better,  "but  I 
mean  to  follow  it  up.  Let's  you  and  I  go  to  the  theatre  this 
evening — eh,  dear  boy?" 

They  used  the  tobacconist's  shop  almost  as  a  club,  and  pre- 
ferred it  to  the  real  club  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
This  was,  in  fact,  a  dingy,  uninviting  mansion.  The  plate- 
glass  windows  were  suggestive  of  the  tanks  in  an  aquarium; 
the  brown-metal  gauze  across  the  lower  part  of  each  window 
looked  like  the  water  in  the  tank;  and  the  club  members  were 
just  like  stupid  old  fish  coming  against  the  glass  while  you 
watched.  No,  the  young  bloods  did  not  bother  themselves 
to  belong  to  this  stupid  tankish  establishment.  Eudd,  the 
tobacconist,  and  the  White  Hart  Hotel  were  the  clubs  for 
them. 

Between  Eudd's  and  the  hotel  they  had  the  very  best  part 


36  HILL  RISE 

of  High  Street  to  stroll  through.  Here  they  were  indeed 
cocks  of  the  walk;  the  Medford  constabulary  saluted  them; 
male  shop  assistants  staring  out  of  shops  admired  and  studied 
the  tilt  of  their  straw  hats,  the  cut  of  their  flannel  trousers, 
the  colour  of  their  ties  and  washing  waistcoats;  while  shop 
proprietors  on  doorsteps  respectfully,  sycophantically  greeted 
them:  "Good-morning,  sir";  "Fine  morning,  sir";  "I  hope 
I  see  you  well,  Mr.  Granville,"  etc. 

In  the  reverential  greeting  of  High  Street  and  its  curtly 
condescending  acknowledgment,  one  could  measure  all  the 
social  gulf  between  the  Hill  and  the  town. 

But  at  the  White  Hart  these  sons  of  the  Hill  were  con- 
tent— from  ancient  usage  and  customs — to  narrow  the  divid- 
ing distance ;  and  in  billiard-room  and  bar-parlour  would  meet 
the  more  important  townsmen  and  hold  commune  with  them 
in  a  patronisingly  friendly  manner. 

The  White  Hart  was  the  best,  the  only  real,  hotel  in  Med- 
ford. It  was  an  old,  spacious  house,  very  slightly  modern- 
ised. On  either  side  of  the  pillared  porch  there  were  white 
posts  and  chains  to  protect  the  shrubs  that  stood  in  green 
tubs;  there  were  flower-boxes  to  all  the  windows  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  the  pavement  was  formed  of  queer  little 
stones  instead  of  the  usual  flags,  in  order  to  show  that  from 
time  immemorial  it  had  belonged,  and  did  now  belong,  to 
the  White  Hart  and  not  to  the  public.  At  one  end  of  the 
house  there  was  a  modern  bar,  with  a  separate  entrance 
to  the  street,  and  a  grand  terra-cotta  front;  but  above 
this  new  ornamental  work  the  musty  old  bedrooms  were 
unchanged. 

The  fine  old  panelled  hall,  the  broad  staircase  and  passages 
were  dark  and  gloomy  even  at  high  noon,  but  behind  the 
hall  there  was  a  better  lit,  glass-screened  bar-parlour  or  land- 
lord's office:  a  most  pleasant  lounging  place,  if  one  had  the 
freedom  of  it — with,  moreover,  some  delightful  small  inner 
rooms,  from  which  the  two  Misses  Drake,  Ethel  and  Mildred, 
daughters  of  mine  host  Bob  Drake,  would  emerge  to  supple- 
ment and  aid  Miss  Granger,  the  manageress.  Here,  in  the 
bar-parlour,  were  issued  orders  to  the  stable-yard ;  here  were 
set  on  slate  and  transferred  to  ledger  bookings  of  flies;  here 


HILL  RISE  37 

bills  for  bed  and  board,  dinners  and  luncheons  were  hastily 
made  out,  etc.,  etc.  When  the  young  men  came  in  here,  they 
felt  it  was  like  going  behind  the  scenes  of  the  hotel.  They 
knew  they  must  be  in  the  way,  and  that  made  it  the  more 
pleasant. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Padfield,  if  you'll  get  off  of  those  books 
you  are  sitting  on,  I'll  enter  this  account.  .  .  .  Let  you  help 
me?  No,  thanks.  .  .  .  Oh,  go  along,  do.  ...  Yes,  I 
dare  say." 

The  loafing  sons  of  the  Hill  would  wander  from  the  hotel 
proper — when  Miss  Granger,  Ethel,  and  Milly  began  to  pall 
— and  through  devious  passages,  and  a  service  door  that  bore 
in  white  paint  the  word  "Private,"  admit  themselves  to  the 
.modern  bar;  and,  if  it  was  empty,  would  chaff  and  rag  the 
younger  barmaid. 

Visitors,  tumbled  from  the  sky  apparently,  thought  all 
these  lounging  young  men  were  the  idle,  noisy  sons  or  nephews 
of  mine  host.  They  thought,  too,  that  Mr.  Drake  must  be 
both  a  very  kind  and  a  very  foolish  man  to  encourage  so 
much  idleness.  But  did  it  matter  what  they  thought — infernal 
outsiders  ? 

Staying  visitors  were  few — "bagmen"  chiefly,  with  aimless 
wanderers  who  did  not  know  what  they  had  come  for,  and 
Americans  carrying  guidebooks,  piously  determined  to  see 
every  town  in  England  before  they  went  home  again.  There 
was  no  thriving  business  here,  and  yet  the  White  Hart  seemed 
to  be  a  paying  concern.  Anyhow,  it  had  been  going  for  two 
hundred  years:  it  could  hardly  stop  going  now.  Profit,  per- 
haps, came  from  the  incredible  number  of  whiskeys  and  sodas 
absorbed  by  its  regular  patrons;  from  auctions  which  were 
often  held  on  the  premises,  as  well  as  political  meetings  and 
dinners;  and  from  the  large  room  upstairs  which  was  used 
always  by  the  Medford  Ancient  Lodge  of  Freemasons,  No. 
3215. 

Behind  the  house  there  was  a  garden  with  well-filled  her- 
baceous borders,  a  basin  for  water-lilies  and  gold-fish,  a  sun- 
dial, bowling  green — and  the  river,  with  a  rotten  old  landing 
stage,  a  crazy  skiff,  and  a  leaking  punt ;  in  which,  if  you  were 
mad,  you  might  adventure  upon  the  muddy,  sluggish  stream. 


38  HILL  RISE 

It  was  said  that  the  Misses  Drake  did  so  adventure,  by  moon- 
light, with  banjo  and  escort. 

The  Hill  Eise  young  men,  supported  by  Mr.  Vincent  of  Hill 
House,  on  summer  afternoons,  would  condescend  to  drink 
whiskey  and  soda  in  the  garden  with  representatives  of  the 
town,  and  sometimes  with  them  play  a  game  of  bowls.  Mr. 
Crunden,  the  retired  builder,  bowled  above  the  average.  Mr. 
Dowling,  the  architect,  was  a  flashy  but  inaccurate  player. 
Alderman  Hopkins  was  passionately  fond  of  this  sedate  sport, 
and  might  be  relied  on  to  deliver  a  useful  if  not  brilliant 
bowl.  Charles,  the  headwaiter,  bringing  out  the  drinks, 
now  and  then  was  called  on  to  make  up  the  party,  while 
the  billiard-marker,  playing  some  young  ass  in  a  stuffy 
billiard-room,  would  peer  out  of  the  window  and  envy  the 
bowlers. 

Charles  looked  all  right  in  the  dark  coffee-room,  but  most 
lamentable  in  the  sunlight  on  the  lawn.  His  white  shirt  was 
frayed  and  soup-stained;  his  black  trousers  were  patched  and 
threadbare;  his  black  coat  was  shiny  and  greasy  from  long 
wear.  When  chaffed  about  his  clothes,  Charles  ever  had  a 
ready,  good-humoured  retort. 

"Disgrace,  are  they?"  said  Charles  to  Mr.  Tommy  Page. 
"Well,  that's  a  disgrace  you  young  gentlemen  might  rectify. 
I'm  not  too  proud  to  accept  of  an  old  dress-suit  from  any 
of  you — or  I'll  buy  one  from  you.  I'll  give  you  a  better  price 
than  old  Gregory — down  Water  Lane.  Verb  sap.  I  ain't 
joking,"  said  Charles  good-humouredly. 

After  this  friendly  manner,  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  one  drowsy 
summer  afternoon  played  bowls  with  two  townsmen.  Mr. 
Jack  was,  as  it  were,  the  prince  and  chieftain  of  all  the 
loafers,  and  yet  was  not  truly  of  their  organised  band.  When 
he  appeared,  all  tacitly  admitted  his  overlordship.  He  was 
above  them  really,  not  of  them.  Hill  Eise  could  not  claim 
him,  and  Medford  could  not  always  retain  him.  He  had  been 
much  away — amateur  soldiering,  sojourn  in  London,  Conti- 
nental travel  even, — but  now  it  seemed  that  he  was  home  for 
good,  settling  down,  putting  on  flesh,  growing  more  and  more 
languid.  He  took  no  exercise  beyond  riding  his  horses — or, 
Sir  John's  horses, — and  all  female  Medford  peeped  forth 


HILL  RISE  39 

and  admired  him  as  he  rode  by.  He  was  greatly  admired 
by  the  ladies. 

He  was  as  fine  a  big,  indolent  young  man  as  you  could 
wish  to  see.  Dark  and  sleek  of  hair,  with  small  moustache 
and  lazily  kind  blue  eyes,  he  had  a  pleasant,  easy  manner  with 
all  the  world.  In  this  respect  he  was  markedly  different  from 
his  companions:  they  could  condescend  and  be  pleasant 
enough  when  it  suited  their  convenience,  but  he  constantly 
gave  one  the  idea  that  Hill  and  Town  were  all  the  same  to 
him,  that  social  distinctions  were  rubbish,  that  one  man  was 
as  good  as  another  until  he  proved  worse — and  so  on.  That 
was  the  impression  of  his  secret  thought  that  he  often  conveyed 
by  his  affability. 

With  his  straw  hat  tilted  over  his  nose,  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  blue  flannel  jacket,  he  strolled  by  the  hotel  sun-dial, 
while  the  bees  drowsily  buzzed  among  the  flowers,  and  the 
occasional  pop  of  a  cork,  or  the  click  of  billiard  balls, 
or  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  the  river  bridge,  were  the  only 
harsh  sounds  to  disturb  the  lazy  peace  of  the  White  Hart 
garden. 

Presently  Mr.  Bowling,  the  architect  and  surveyor,  came 
down  the  path  and  made  bold  to  challenge  him. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Vincent.  Will  you  give  me  a  game 
at  the  bowls?" 

"Have  a  drink,"  said  Mr.  Vincent ;  "that's  less  trouble." 

"Well,  I  don't  as  a  rule  drink  between  meals,  but  I  will 
join  you.  It  is  uncommonly  warm  to-day.  I'll  go  and  fetch 
Charles." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Vincent,  as  though  unwilling 
to  see  any  one  exert  himself  needlessly.  "Give  a  shout  for 
him.  D'you  mind?  .  .  .  Just  shout  again.  .  .  .  Well 
done.  He'll  hear  that." 

And  Charles  came  out,  received  the  order,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  his  little  tray  and  glasses. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  playing  a  four,"  said  Mr.  Vincent.  "Do 
you  mind  playing,  Charles?  .  .  .  That's  a  sportsman, 
Charles — as  you  always  are.  .  .  .  But  who'll  make  us  up? 
No,  we  shan't  be  able  to  play,  because  we  haven't  got  a 
fourth." 


40  HILL  RISE 

"Don't  say  that,  sir,"  said  Charles.  "I  see  Mr.  Crunden 
on  the  stairs  just  now,  carrying  up  some  of  the  Masonic  fur- 
niture to  the  lodge-room — it's  lodge  night.  I  believe  Mr. 
Crunden  would  play,  sir." 

"Then  go  and  ask  him." 

"I  don't  scarcely  like  to,"  said  Charles.  "He  might  think 
it  a  liberty,  coming  from  me — and  he  takes  one  up  so  short, 
Mr.  Crunden  does." 

"Then,  would  you  mind?"  said  Mr.  Jack,  languidly  appeal- 
ing to  Mr.  Bowling.  "You  ask  him." 

"You  ask  him,"  said  Mr.  Bowling.  "He'll  be  pleased  with 
the  compliment  of  you  asking  him,  and  he'll  come.  If  /  ask 
him,  he'll  very  likely  say  no." 

Thus  urged  into  action,  Mr.  Jack  languidly  strolled  back 
to  the  house,  and,  standing  on  the  gravel  terrace  outside 
the  coffee-room,  shouted  upwards  to  one  of  the  big  windows 
on  the  first  floor. 

"Brother  Crunden!  You  up  there?  Brother  Crun — 
den !" 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?"  and  Hedgehog  Crunden  showed  his  grey 
head  beneath  the  raised  sash. 

"B'you  mind  coming  down  and  making  us  up?  Want  to 
play  a  foursome — at  bowls." 

Mr.  Crunden  gave  a  grunt,  scratched  his  short  grey  beard, 
and  hesitated. 

"You  and  I  against  Charles  and  Brother  Bowling.  That 
ought  to  be  a  pretty  good  match." 

"Well,"  and  Mr.  Crunden  grunted  again,  "I'm  agreeable." 

There  was  nothing  very  agreeable  in  his  tone  or  aspect;  he 
merely  meant,  of  course,  that  he  would  comply  with  the  re- 
quest for  his  company. 

The  sides  were  constituted  as  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  had  sug- 
gested, and  a  coin  was  at  once  spun  into  the  air. 

"'Arf  a  moment,"  said  Charles,  "before  we  begin — a  bob 
a  corner,  I  suppose." 

"I  do  not  care  to  bet,"  said  old  Crunden  sternly. 

"All  right,"  said  Jack  Vincent,  "I'll  carry  you." 

"I  prefer  not  to  bet  either,"  said  Mr.  Bowling. 

"Very  good,"  said  Charles ;  "I'll  carry  you."    And  he  turned 


HILL  RISE  41 

to  Jack:  "That's  half  a  dollar  for  you  or  me  now  hanging 
on  this  contest." 

Then  the  little  friendly  game  began. 

When  the  pastime  of  bowls  was  exhausted,  Mr.  Vincent, 
summoning  all  his  energy,  prepared  to  go  slowly  homeward. 
But  ere  he  shook  himself  free  from  the  White  Hart  he  looked 
in  at  the  modern  saloon  bar. 

This  was  a  lavishly  decorated  and  upholstered  apartment, 
upon  which  "mine  host" — as  the  local  newspaper  never  failed 
to  call  Mr.  Drake — had  spared  no  cost.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  do  it  in  tip-top  style  and  obtain  something  up-to- 
date,  Al  London  standard.  It  almost  dazzled  one  by  its 
flash  and  glitter — absolutely  no  stint  in  carved  mahogany, 
marble  slabs,  bevelled  looking-glass,  nickel  fittings,  tessellated 
pavement,  mosaic  wall-panels,  frescoed  ceiling,  red-leather 
divan,  etc. 

"I  say  to  you,  Mr.  Drake,"  declared  Alderman  Hopkins, 
on  an  informal  visit  of  inspection,  "you  have  given  us  some- 
thing that  is  a  credit  to  you  and  a  credit  to  the  town." 

The  only  person  who  perhaps  did  not  entirely  approve  was 
Mr.  Dowling,  the  architect.  His  professional  advice  had  not 
been  asked,  and  at  first  he  looked  on  these  metropolitan 
splendours  with  a  prejudiced  eye.  However,  Mr.  Drake — 
mine  tactful  host — took  an  early  opportunity  of  putting  him- 
self straight  with  Mr.  Dowling. 

"I  haven't  come  worrying  you  over  this,"  said  Bob  Drake, 
"because  it  isn't,  strictly  speaking,  an  architect's  job.  Be- 
neath you — no  real  art  in  it.  Just  a  catch-penny  trick-out 
that  these  London  firms  supply  by  the  dozen.  But  I  hope  I 
need  not  say  no  slight  intended  to  be  passed  on  a  brother 
mason  and  townsman.  No,  sir;  if  I  ever  rebuild  the  hotel, 
there  is  only  one  man  in  England  I  shall  go  to  for  the  design 
— and  that  is  Mr.  Dowling." 

"Say  no  more,  Mr.  Drake.  I  own  I  was  just  a  wee  bit  hurt 
by  being  left  out  in  the  cold.  But  what  you  have  just  said 
removes  any  little  soreness — and  is  a  very  handsome  compli- 
ment." 

"Your  due,  Mr.  Dowling." 


42  HILL  RISE 

Mr.  Drake,  it  may  be  added,  did  not  intend,  and  never 
had  intended,  to  rebuild  the  White  Hart. 

Jessie  Barter,  the  junior  barmaid,  was  quite  young  and  new 
to  her  work.  She  had  been  in  Selkirk's,  the  draper's,  until 
an  unpleasantness  had  occurred,  and  then  she  was  "called  to 
the  Bar."  That  was  a  joke  of  the  young  gentlemen.  The 
real  bar-governor  was  stout  Emily,  a  big,  jolly  woman  of  forty- 
five  or  more,  who  came  on  duly  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  who 
could  manage  a  crowd  and  maintain  discipline.  She  wore 
black  silk  at  night,  whereas  Jessie,  her  junior,  wore  a  stuff- 
gown.  The  young  men  always  asked  Jessie  when  she  was 
going  to  take  silk,  but  she  did  not  understand  what  they 
meant. 

In  general  company  she  seemed  afraid  of  the  gentlemen's 
jokes,  not  knowing  when  they  would  go  too  far.  She  was  quite 
devoid  of  repartee.  She  liked  an  empty  saloon,  and  to  sit 
on  her  stool  reading  her  Mignonette  novel.  If  a  gentleman 
«ame  in  then,  she  would  find  something  to  say  for  herself. 

Big  Emily  was  a  thorough  good  sort,  and  could  really  keep 
order.  At  her  age  she  was  ripe  for  a  highly  seasoned  anec- 
dote, but  would  stand  no  nonsense  before  the  girl. 

"Now,  Mr.  Padfield,"  she  would  say  roundly,  "that's 
enough,  please.  Moderate  your  tongue  kindly,  or  go  outside 
and  wag  it  in  the  street.  You'll  find  some  one  out  there  that's 
fond  of  dirt." 

In  this  staunch  manner  she  guarded  the  young  lady  under 
her  chaperonage,  and  prevented  indecorous  conversation  from 
reaching  those  youthful  ears.  She  never  relaxed  her  care,  al- 
though privily  she  held  a  poor  opinion  of  Jessie,  and  had 
already  detected  her  to  be  rather  a  little  puss. 

Auburn-haired  Jessie  was  all  alone  with  her  paper  novel 
now,  when  Mr.  Jack  entered  through  the  service  door.  She 
laid  aside  the  pamphlet  and  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"What,"  said  Jessie,  rising,  "can  I  give  you?" 

"You  can  give  me  a  kiss,"  said  Mr.  Vincent. 

"Oh,  you  shall  have  that.  But  I  mean  what  d'you  want  to 
drink?  Scotch  and  soda,  as  per  usual?" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Vincent,  "it  must  be  a  very  small  one 
if  I  do.  My  dear  Jessie — just  a  small  one." 


HILL  RISE  43 

"Puff,  puff,  too?"  inquired  Jessie,  as  she  put  the 
soda-water  bottle  into  the  patent  cork-extracting  machine. 
"Want  a  cig?  There;  I'll  light  it  for  you.  There.  Saj 
ta— 

"Now  you're  happy."  And  Jessie  gave  a  little  laugh.  "I 
wished  you  to  smoke,  because — because  I've  got  something  to 
say  to  you, — Jack." 

She  was  a  good-looking  girl,  slim,  and  trim  of  figure  in 
her  severe  black  gown.  Hdr  bronze-coloured  hair  was  quite 
pretty,  and  grew  prettily  about  her  white  forehead;  her  skin 
was  naturally  white,  and  her  lips  were  red  and  well-shaped; 
she  ought  to  have  been  a  really  attractive  girl,  but  somehow  she 
was  spoilt  by  her  rather  cold  bluish-grey  eyes.  Perhaps  it  was 
in  her  eyes  that  large  Emily  had  read  the  secret  of  her  being 
at  heart  a  puss. 

"Look  here,  Jack,"  said  Jessie  presently,  "you  don't  like 
me — not  as  you  used  to  like  me,  Jack.  You  know  you  don't. 
It  makes  me  very  wretched.  Yes,  it  does." 

"What  nonsense,"  said  Jack,  suppressing  a  yawn.  "My 
dear  girl,  who  could  help  liking. you?" 

"You  did  like  me  once." 

"I  do  still." 

"I  wonder !"  and  Jessie  twined  her  white  fingers  round  the 
silver-plated  lemon-squasher,  held  her  head  slightly  on  one 
side,  smiled,  and  spoke  shyly,  slowly,  hesitatingly.  "Jack,  if 
I  was  to  call  on  you  to  prove  it?" 

"I  thought  I'd  done  that." 

Jessie  flushed,  gave  the  squasher  a  sharp  squeeze,  and  spoke 
faster. 

"Don't  talk  foolish,  Jack.  What  I  mean  is — if  I  was  to  ask 
you  to  do  me  a  great  favour — to  help  me  by  doing  me  a  real 
service." 

"We'll,  I'd  do  it  if  I  could." 

"I  wonder — I  wonder  if  you  would!  You  would — certain 
sure — if  you  really  liked  me." 

Jack  Vincent  yawned  again. 

"What  is  it,  Jessie?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  now.  But — perhaps — later  on — I'll  pluck  up 
all  my  poor  little  courage  and  ask  you." 


44  HILL  RISE 

"All  right;"  and  Mr.  Vincent  was  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing the  saloon. 

"Jack!"  cried  Jessie,  very  reproachfully.  "Aren't  you  go- 
ing to  take  your  kiss?"  And  she  stretched  forward  above  the 
liqueur  decanters. 

"My  dear  Jessie,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what 
I  was  thinking  about."  And  he  came  back  and  gave  her  a 
perfunctory  embrace. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  Lizzie  Crunden  left  school  her  father  had  definitely 
retired  from  business.  It  had  taken  a  long  time  to  wind  up 
his  affairs,  to  withdraw  his  capital  from  bricks  and  mortar, 
dispose  of  his  yard,  stock  in  trade,  etc.,  and  lapse  into  private 
life.  But  now  on  Lizzie's  return,  he  had  been  completely  out 
of  business  for  two  months. 

He  had  retired  wisely.  In  Medford  the  builders'  trade  had 
fallen  to  nothing.  The  town  had  settled  down  sleepily,  and 
seemed  content  with  its  present  size  and  importance.  There 
was,  in  fact,  no  possibility  of  continued  expansion.  All  the 
open  ground  had  been  covered  with  the  modern  red-brick 
villas.  No  more  ground  was  available.  There  were  left  only 
the  Crown  woods  and  common,  and  my  Lady  Haddenham's 
land ;  and  these,  it  went  without  saying,  would  never  be  avail- 
able for  building  enterprises.  Any  chance  big  job,  such  as 
the  new  wing  to  Wace's  brewery,  or  Selkirk's  domed  halls, 
always  went  to  some  interloping  London  firm.  It  was  the 
hour  to  stop  work,  fold  your  hands,  and  sit  tight  on  your 
savings. 

Lizzie,  on  this  last  return  from  Eastbourne,  found  some 
slight  changes  at  King's  Cottage.  Nearly  all  tokens  of  an 
office  had  gone  from  the  big  room;  the  brass  plate  had  been 
taken  from  the  outer  door,  and  the  screw-holes  had  been 
plugged  and  retouched  with  paint  in  so  good  and  workmanlike 
a  manner  that  no  stranger  could  guess  the  plate  had  ever 
been  there.  Lizzie's  bedroom  was  newty  and  prettily  painted 
and  papered;  and  poor  mamma's  never-used  drawing-room 
was  bare  and  empty.  Mr.  Crunden  had  sold  all  the  carefully 
chosen  furniture  to  Councillor  Holland,  of  Holland  Brothers, 
in  Bridge  Street.  It  reminded  him  too  painfully  of  the 
gentle,  kindly  helpmate  he  had  lost. 

"You  see,  Liz,  what  I  meant.    I  couldn't  have  borne  it — 

45 


46  HILL  RISE 

to  come  into  the  room  and  find  all  the. things  the  same — and 
her  gone.  I  haven't  been  in — not  twice  in  these  four  years. 
It'll  be  your  room  now,  Lizzie,  and  it  shall  be  done  to  your 
taste." 

But  Lizzie  was  in  no  hurry — always  put  off  the  considera- 
tion of  a  fresh  furnishing  scheme,  and  the  room  remained 
empty. 

He  was  proud  of  his  daughter,  and  he  asked  her  quite  seri- 
ously if  the  house  was  good  enough  for  her. 

"I  am  well-to-do.  I  can  afford  a  better  house — a  much 
better  house — if  you  wish  it." 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  Lizzie.  "I  wouldn't  live  anywhere  else  for 
worlds." 

"Wouldn't  you,  my  dear?  Well,  I  do  like  the  old  place 
myself." 

He  was  obviously  gratified  by  receiving  this  assurance  that 
King's  Cottage  was  not  only  good  enough  for  him  but  good 
enough  for  his  well-educated  daughter. 

Then,  tentatively,  he  proposed  that  some  well-educated 
matron  or  spinster  should  be  engaged  as  lady-companion  for 
Lizzie. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  Liz.  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you 
the  right  thing?  I  mean  a  real  lady — like  Miss  Blackburn, 
if  she  was  free — not  to  teach  you,  my  dear,  but  to  live  here 
with  us  and  go  out  for  walks  with  you." 

But  Lizzie  said  no  most  emphatically,  and  papa  seemed 
once  more  gratified,  and  immensely  relieved.  Nevertheless, 
lie  conscientiously  argued  the  question. 

"Sure  it  doesn't  seem  right  to  you?" 

"Eight  to  have  some  stupid  stranger  always  between  us! 
Oh,  dad,  it  would  be  simply  odious.  You  would  hate  it  as 
much  as  I  should." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  at  last,  "I  should  abominate 
it.  But  I'd  gladly  support  anything  that  was  right  and  proper 
for  your  sake." 

Lizzie's  bright  eyes  filled  with  tears  as,  linking  her  arm 
in  her  father's,  she  walked  with  him  in  the  old  garden  and 
talked  with  him  thus.  The  garden  was  no  longer  a  wilderness ; 
trees  had  been  severely  pruned,  the  grass  was  shorn,  new  gravel 


HILL  RISE  4T 

was  on  the  trim  paths,  and  flowers  were  coming  on  nicely  in 
the  now  weedless  beds  and  border.  The  summerhouse  was 
gay,  and  a  trifle  sticky  with  new  paint  and  varnish. 

"I  have  spent  a  tidy  bit  of  money  out  here  in  getting  it 
shipshape  for  you,  Lizzie.  Cleared  away  all  those  old  shan- 
ties;" and  he  pointed  to  the  spot  where  the  greenhouse  and 
potting-shed  used  to  stand,  or  rather  to  recline,  against  the 
garden  wall.  "I  wanted  the  garden  neat  and  natty  for  you, 
Liz." 

"You  dear,  kind  old  dad;"  and  Lizzie  squeezed  his  arm; 
and,  while  he  told  her  about  the  gardeners  whom  he  had  em- 
ployed, she  glanced  at  him  with  a  tender  and  loving  studious- 
ness. 

"Not  understanding  garden  work,  I  was  at  sea  with  them — 
three  lazy,  hulking  dogs  from  Bradshaw's, — and  I  believe  they 
imposed  upon  me.  But  I  don't  grudge  it,  Lizzie,  if  you  are 
pleased." 

"Very,  very,  very  pleased,  father." 

She  was  pleased  with  his  affectionate  thought  for  her  hap- 
piness, shown  again  in  this  as  in  everything  else  that  he 
said;  and  she  was  most  grateful.  Yet  truly  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  lose  this  strange  garden  and  recover  the  old 
garden  of  her  youth.  She  had  promised  herself  long  hours  of 
novel-reading  and  day-dreaming  in  the  wilderness  of  her 
childhood's  dreams. 

Glancing  at  him,  she  noticed  an  increased  greyness  in  his 
beard,  and  white  hairs  that  were  new  in  the  hair  on  his 
temples.  He  looked  older  now  that  he  had  ceased  working. 
He  still  wore  a  grey,  workmanlike  suit,  but  it  was  perhaps  of 
a  superior  material  than  in  the  past,  and  there  was  no  saw- 
dust or  brickdust  on  it.  The  blue-linen  shirt  and  collar  were 
an  innovation,  and  his  watchguard  was  a  leather  strap  with 
a  little  silver  buckle  instead  of  the  thin  steel  chain  that  she 
remembered  all  her  life. 

It  must  have  been  a  good  school  at  Eastbourne — because 
with  all  the  high-class  learning  there  imparted  they  had  never 
taught  her  to  be  ashamed  of  her  father.  She  would  not  have 
changed  him  for  the  most  ornamental  father  out  of  all  her 
romantic  novels. 


48  HILL  RISE 

Mrs.  Price,  throughout  Lizzie's  first  evening  at  home,  was 
altogether  cousinly — the  affectionate,  staunch  relative  of  the 
Crunden  family.  Her  honest,  wrinkled  face  beamed  with 
welcoming  joy;  she  called  Miss  Crunden  "my  pet,"  flung  her 
arms  about  her,  kissed  and  hugged  her. 

"Oh,  my  pet — it  does  seem  good  to  have  you  back  for  to 
stay  this  time !  And,  oh,  my  pet,  to  see  you  so  fine-grown — 
such  a  tall,  beautiful  young  lady,  and  yet  for  to  know  that 
you're  glad  to  see  your  poor  old  Pricey !" 

Indeed  Lizzie  was  glad  to  see  her,  and  to  feel  the  warmth 
of  this  humble  old  cousin's  welcome. 

"A  grand  young  lady  you  do  look,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  retir- 
ing a  few  paces  in  order  the  better  to  admire  the  general  and 
combined  effect  of  face,  figure,  costume.  "There'll  be  heads 
turning  round  all  along  High  Street,  Lizzie  dear,  when  you 
go  down  for  the  shopping." 

But  next  morning  every  mark  of  cousinship  had  vanished. 
Mrs.  Price  entered  the  parlour  where  Lizzie  was  sitting  as 
the  cook-housekeeper,  and  nothing  more.  Grey,  demure,  sol- 
emnly respectful,  she  laid  down  on  the  table  a  little  pile 
of  tradesmen's  books  with  a  tin  box  full  of  labelled  keys,  and 
folded  her  kind  old  hands. 

"Miss  Lizzie — Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  as  though  reciting 
a  lesson,  "I  have  brought  the  week's  books  which  I  kep'  back 
on  Saturday  to  have  in  readiness — and  you  will  find  there  the 
most  of  the  keys.  The  linen  cupboard,  owing  to  a  mistake  of 
Mary's,  is  not  yet  made  up  to  the  full  strength  as  I  should 
wish  to  hand  it  over  to  you.  Mr.  Crunden  has  said  he  sup- 
poses now  it  will  be  late  dinner,  and  you  would  name  the 
hour.  He  said  that  must  be  for  you  to  decide.  He  will  lunch 
heart}',  and  for  him  the  late  dinner  will  be  in  place  of  his 
supper.  Of  a  morning,  would  you  wish  me  to  come  in  here 
for  the  orders  or  would  you  come  out  to  the  kitchen?" 

Lizzie  at  first  had  not  understood,  but  now  it  was  plain 
that  Mrs.  Price's  recitation  conveyed  the  formal  giving-over 
of  supreme  command. 

"No,  no,"  said  Lizzie;  "I  couldn't.  No,  Pricey,  you  old 
dear,  I  leave  it  all  to  you." 

Mrs.  Price  was  frankly  delighted.     She  had  always  loved 


HILL  RISE  49 

her  Lizzie,  and  now  she  adored  her.  Her  hands  trembled 
and  the  keys  clanked  in  the  tin  box  as  she  gathered  up  the 
insignia  of  domestic  office. 

"Not  look  at  the  books,  even  ?  Won't  you,  dear  ?  Well,  they 
are  a  lot  of  bother,  and  they'll  be  there  for  you  to  look 
at  any  time  you  choose.  I'll  not  take  liberties,  Lizzie  dear — 
Miss  Lizzie,  as  I  shall  say  henceforth — and  not  forget  that 
you  are  the  mistress  of  the  house,  though  you  trust  me  to 
manage  it  for  you." 

So  the  household  was  conducted  as  of  old  by  Mrs.  Price, 
with  Mary  the  maid — successor  to  Jane — and  Mrs.  Gates, 
the  charwoman,  wife  of  an  old  employee  of  Mr.  Crunden's, 
who  came  in  every  day.  There  was  no  fashionable  modish 
upheaval  or  introduction  of  tip-top  society  methods  in  honour 
of  the  highly  educated,  prettily  dressed,  altogether  ladylike, 
young  mistress. 

Mr.  Crunden  gave  his  daughter  a  substantial  dress  allow- 
ance, and  begged  her  to  dress  handsomely.  On  more  than 
one  occasion  he  reminded  her  that,  although  he  was  no  longer 
a  money-earning  man,  there  was  no  need  for  excessive  econ- 
omy. "Don't  grudge  yourself,  Liz.  If  I  seem  to  make  a  poor 
mouth  sometimes,  it's  just  old  habit — but  don't  believe  it. 
I'm  well-to-do.  I'm  quite  well-to-do."  That  was  a  favourite 
expression  of  his  when  he  spoke  of  money.  He  took  interest 
in  all  new  hats  and  dresses,  and  once  or  twice  showed  that 
he  had  scanned  the  shop  windows  by  offering  a  suggestion. 

"At  Selkirk's  to-day,  Lizzie,"  he  said,  thoughtfully  scratch- 
ing his  beard,  "I  noticed  a  very  natty,  stylish,  fashionable 
hat." 

"Dad,"  said  Lizzie,  smiling,  "how  do  you  come  to  know 
whether  it  was  fashionable  or  not?" 

"I  judge  that  by  many  signs,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  with 
the  utmost  seriousness.  "For  one  thing,  it  was  put  forward 
in  the  window,  and  the  card  said,  'Straight  from  Paris'  I 
think  that  hat  would  suit  you,  Lizzie." 

"What  was  it  like,  father?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  should  say  full-size — quite  large  and 
handsome;"  and  Mr.  Crunden  bent  his  grey  brows  as  he 
sought  for  appropriate  words.  "Orange  colour — the  main 


50  HILL  RISE 

part.  And  purple  in  the  bows  and  et  ceteras.  There  was  a 
bird,  too — what  I  judged  to  be  a  humming-bird  or  paradise — 
with  roses — and  other  flowers — and  some  fruit.  I  think  there 
was  a  couple  of  bunches  of  grapes  or  cherries — and " 

"Father !"  interrupted  Lizzie,  "How  much  ?  That  must  be 
too  much  for  any  hat." 

"Too  much?"  echoed  Mr.  Crunden,  not  grasping  what  his 
daughter  meant.  "I  can't  say  what  they  were  asking  for  it. 
There  was  no  ticket.  But  do  not  grudge  the  price,  Lizzie,  if 
you  wish  the  hat." 

She  did  not  buy  the  bird  of  paradise  and  its  et  ceteras,  but 
in  due  course  and  season  she  secured  other  and  less  gener- 
ously furnished  hats  or  toques  from  Selkirk's  fascinating  win- 
dows; and  her  father  was  well  satisfied  with  the  result  of  her 
unprompted  taste.  In  the  town,  when  he  saw  her,  he  looked 
at  her  critically — and  then  swelled  with  pride.  She  was  as 
much  the  lady  as  any  one  from  Hill  Eise.  While  wearing  his 
ordinary  clothes  he  would  not  talk  to  her  or  walk  with  her 
in  the  town,  but  he  loved  much — on  receipt  of  sufficient  warn- 
ing— to  dress  in  his  best  and  escort  her  to  the  Church  of  St. 
Barnabas,  the  sale  of  work  at  the  Town  Hall,  the  athletic 
sports  of  the  Medford  Volunteer  Battalion,  or  merely  to  sit 
by  her  side  during  a  quiet  country  drive  in  a  one-horse  landau 
from  the  White  Hart  livery  stables. 

Once  at  least  in  each  year  he  took  her  away  for  a  pleasure 
tour.  Dr.  Blake,  the  eminent  physician  of  Hill  Rise,  had  told 
him  that  the  air  of  Medford  was  enervating  for  youth.  "I 
send  all  my  young  ladies  for  a  change  of  air — one  month 
out  of  every  twelve,"  said  Dr.  Blake.  "Any  other  air,  you 
know ;  different  air — that  is  the  point."  Mr.  and  Miss  Crun- 
den visited  Cornwall,  the  English  lake  district,  the  seaside  and 
inland  watering  places,  and  stayed  in  brief  state  at  the  very 
best  hotels.  Mr.  Crunden,  wearing  a  black  frockcoat  at 
table  d'hote,  was  unusually  solemn  and  silent.  Like  a  mother, 
after  the  luxurious  meal,  he  would  watch  over  his  daughter  in 
gaudy  reading-rooms,  noisy  hotel  lounges,  where  a  band  of 
music  deafened  and  annoyed  him ;  or  in  the  big  salon  where  a 
corpulent  conjuror  produced  bowls  of  goldfish  from  the  wings 
and  tails  of  his  dress-suit,  while  the  conjuror's  wife  sat  by 


HILL  RISE  51 

the  salon  with  a  plate  which  bore  one  of  the  conjuror's  real 
half-crowns  and  into  which  the  departing  audience,  not  taking 
the  hint,  dropped  sixpences.  After  such  an  entertainment 
Mr.  Crunden  parted  with  his  daughter  at  the  foot  of  the 
grand  staircase,  kissed  her,  blessed  her  in  a  gruff  whisper— 
"Good-night,  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear!" — and  then  with 
alacrity  stamped  off  to  the  hotel  smoking-room,  silently  to 
smoke  the  pipe  for  which  he  had  been  craving  ever  since 
dinner. 

On  these  holiday  trips  he  was  at  once  shrewd  and  simple,, 
refusing  to  be  "diddled,"  as  he  termed  it,  by  extortionate  fly- 
drivers,  guides,  and  itinerant  curio-dealers,  but  giving  bravely 
in  largesse  to  hall  porters,  headwaiters,  and  railway  guards 
who  flattered  him  by  obsequious  attention. 

He  was  chary  of  converse  with  fellow-travellers,  although 
gratified  by  the  chattiness  of  undoubted  ladies  and  gentle- 
men freely  exchanging  small  talk  with  his  grey-eyed,  brown- 
haired,  graceful  companion.  For  the  most  part  he  preserved 
silence;  but  when  urbanely  forced  into  speech,  he  exhibited  a 
natural  common-sense  that  was  well  accepted  by  polite  listen- 
ers. It  was  only  when  unexpectedly  he  became  of  a  sudden 
too  much  interested  in  a  discussion  that  he  made  a  less  favour- 
able impression. 

So  it  was,  unfortunately,  at  the  general  table  of  a  west 
country  inn,  when  the  assembled  guests  talked  about  building 
— of  all  things  in  the  world.  Every  one  had  been  to  see 
the  showplace  of  the  neighbourhood,  an  ancient,  ruined  castle ; 
and  now  a  visitor,  full  of  culture  and  curious  lore,  was  pomp- 
ously condemning  the  errors  of  the  penny  guidebook.  Then 
Mr.  Crunden  became  too  much  interested.  The  whole  fabric, 
said  the  learned  visitor,  was  of  earlier  date  than  that  as- 
signed. It  was  a  composite  construction  giving  plain  evidence 
of  varied  historic  epochs.  The  gate  and  outer  hall  were  Saxon 
on  a  Eoman  foundation;  the  inner  court  was  Norman;  of  a 
later  date,  but  also  clearly  Norman,  was  the  octagonal  brick 
tower,  with  the  brick-faced  hall. 

"Stuff,"  said  Mr.  Crunden. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  asked  the  gentleman;  "what  did  you 
say?" 


52  HILL  RISE 

"Stuff!"  said  Mr.  Crunden  loudly  and  warmly.  "I  said 
stuff  to  all  the  tale  you've  been  telling  us.  Not  a  course  of 
that  brickwork  is  older  than  Henry  Seven  or  Henry  Eight — I 
can  judge  that  by  a  dozen  different  signs.  To  anybody  who 
has  the  knowledge,  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face." 

"Father/'  whispered  Lizzie,  shyly,  pulling  the  sleeve  of  his 
black  frockcoat. 

"Let  me  be,  my  girl,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  sternly;  "I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about." 

Home  again  at  King's  Cottage  after  the  holiday,  it  was 
pretty  to  see  Lizzie  taking  up  the  quiet,  humdrum  home  life, 
devoting  herself  to  her  father,  trying  to  help  him  with  his 
correspondence,  suiting  all  her  hours  to  his.  At  home  there 
was  no  late  dinner — they  kept  that  fashionable  custom  for 
the  holidays.  Lizzie  understood  that  papa's  habits,  founded 
in  the  dim  past,  were  so  firmly  established  that  he  would  feel 
discomfort  if  he  broke  them. 

He  must  breakfast  early — eight  o'clock  at  the  latest. 
Then  he  went  for  his  first  walk.  This  was  the  hour  when  he 
used  to  look  in  at  the  yard,  and  then  trudge  round  and  inspect 
all  work  in  progress.  It  was  a  settled  habit.  Wet  or  fine 
was  all  one ;  he  could  not  have  remained  indoors  between  nine 
and  half-past  ten.  His  second  and  longer  walk  was  at  two 
o'clock,  immediately  after  dinner. 

In  the  morning,  from  about  eleven,  he  sat  at  home — as  of 
old — in  the  room  that  had  been  his  office.  It  was  a  pleasant 
enough  hall  sitting-room  now.  The  red-bound  ledgers,  etc., 
had  disappeared  from  Mr.  Crunden's  bureau;  a  Chippendale 
cabinet  had  been  brought  in  for  balance  and  ornament,  and 
the  late  Mrs.  Crunden's  blue  china  looked  well  behind  the 
latticed  glass ;  on  the  broad  mantelpiece  there  were  only  vases 
and  Mr.  Crunden's  tobacco  jar — no  sample  tiles,  parquetry 
blocks,  and  bath  taps  now.  Two  engravings  of  Medford 
Bridge  and  Hill,  as  painted  in  the  year  1817,  now  occupied 
the  space  where  auction  bills  used  to  hang  and  flutter.  Glazed 
drain-pipes,  model  plumbing  devices,  and  pattern  bell-pushes 
had  all  been  banished,  and  the  dai's  or  raised  floor  of  the 
large  bay  window  was  now  clear  of  all  the  wallpaper  books, 


HILL  RISE  53 

rolls,  and  cuttings  that  used  once  to  fill  it.  In  the  window 
recess  there  was  now  a  black  oak  table  with  a  large  bowl  of 
flowers,  and  a  comfortable  chair  for  Lizzie  to  sit  in  and  look 
out  at  the  local  aristocrats  going  up  or  down  Hill  Kise,  while 
father  was  amusing  himself  with  his  papers  and  letters. 

Here  in  the  past,  from  eleven  to  one,  he  used  to  polish 
off  his  correspondence,  frame  tenders,  make  out  accounts — 
in  fact,  transact  his  business.  And  now  he  made  for  himself 
dilettante  business.  He  had  endless  and  innumerable  trade- 
lists  sent  to  him  still,  and  he  went  through  them  thoroughly, 
en  amateur.  If  in  a  list  there  was  anything  new  and  startling, 
he  would  take  up  pen  and  write :  "Touching  those  Ajax  revolv- 
ing cowls  you  advertise  on  P.  24  of  catalogue  just  to  hand, 
would  say  that  although  retired  am  interested  in  such  prob- 
lems. .  .  .  Should  be  glad,  therefore,  if,  without  trouble, 
you  could  give  me  some  further  information.  ...  Do  you 
find  your  Ajax  to  revolve  and  stop  down-draught  where  lofty 
trees  screen  roof  and  chimney  stack  ?"  Then,  of  course,  Blank 
&  Co.  snowed  him  up  with  cowl-literature. 

He  studiously  read  such  journals  as  The  Architect  and  The 
Builder,  and  had  appeared  in  the  print  of  both.  A  modest 
little  piece  of  authorship  would  keep  him  busy  for  two  or 
three  mornings. 

"To  the  Editor.  Sir:  With  regard  to  ridge  slates,  and 
'Sceptic's'  retort  re  water  finding  its  way  into  the  joints: 
as  a  very  old  hand  I  suggest  you  will  not  yet  do  better  than 
employ  lead-flashings;  and  if  you  wish  to  give  an  extra  fillet 
to  the  whole  weather  corner,  you  can  .  ,  ."  etc.,  etc. 

Then  Miss  Lizzie  received  papa's  much-corrected  MS.  and 
fair-copied  it  with  her  ladylike  handwriting,  and  only  very 
rarely  slipped  in  the  transcription.  It  was  in  this  very  letter 
that  she  slipped  badly.  Something  had  distracted  her.  Hill 
Eise  had  drawn  her  gaze.  A  sound  of  horses'  feet  perhaps 
caused  her  to  look  up,  and  she  had  watched  Mr.  Jack  Vin- 
cent ride  home  to  Hill  House  on  his  prancing  bay.  Any- 
how, she  made  her  dreadful  mistake  of  putting  "fillip"  for 
"fillet." 

The  editor  allowed  it  to  pass.  "If  you  wish  to  give  an 
extra  fillip  to  the  corner" — no  sense  at  all — gibberish ! 


54  HILL  RISE 

Mr.  Crunden  was  deeply  mortified,  but  not  unkind  to  Lizzie 
apologising  profusely. 

"Don't  speak  of  it  again.  Let's  forget  it.  I  want  to  for- 
get it.  ...  I  dare  say  no  one  will  notice." 

And  no  one  did. 

One  day  was  very  like  another,  and  when  that  can  be  said  of 
days,  months  soon  roll  themselves  into  years.  Sheltered  by  the 
thick  old  walls  of  King's  Cottage,  time  seemed  to  stand  still, 
and  yet  it  glided  away. 

When  papa  took  his  second  walk,  Lizzie  usually  took  her 
first.  In  the  springtime  and"  early  summer  she  was  languid, 
and  averse  to  the  long  tramps  across  the  common  which  Dr. 
Blake  prescribed  for  all  young  ladies  who  consulted  him. 
She  would  go  out  with  a  novel  from  Mr.  Mees's  circulating 
library  in  Bridge  Street,  stroll  up  to  the  woods,  and  there,  on 
bench  or  bank,  languidly  rest  and  read. 

Upon  a  bright  May  afternoon,  as  she  strolled  upward,  Hill 
Rise  might  have  been  a  real  hill,  a  mountain  almost — she  felt 
so  languid.  Hill  Eise  was  looking  its  best ;  the  laburnums  and 
chestnut  trees  were  in  full-bloom;  sun-blinds  were  out  at 
Nos.  6  and  8;  this  spring  Mr.  Abinger  had  been  lavish  with 
new  paint,  pointing,  and  colour-washing  on  behalf  of  the 
Countess  Dowager.  Seen  behind  the  fresh  green  of  the 
foliage,  every  house  looked  spic-and-span  and  smart  and  clean, 
as  well  as  imposing  and  aristocratic. 

Out  of  No.  12  came  Miss  Granville  and  Miss  Page,  faintly 
pattering  on  rubber  shoes,  talking,  laughing,  swinging  their 
tennis  rackets,  as  they  hastened  to  the  club  grounds.  They 
stared  hard  at  Lizzie  as  a  town  girl,  who  did  not  please  them 
for  walking  up  Hill  Rise  in  a  burnt  straw  hat  and  blue 
dress  which  they  would  not  have  been  ashamed  to  wear 
themselves. 

"That  girl  fancies  herself,"  said  Miss  Page  to  Miss  Gran- 
ville. "I  talked  to  her  at  the  Hospital  Bazaar,  but  I  suppose 
she  doesn't  expect  I'm  going  to  nod  to  her  ever  afterwards." 

"What  next?"  said  Miss  Granville.  And  they  tossed  their 
heads  and  laughed  as  they  went  in  at  the  club  wicket. 

Out  of  No.  11  came  Admiral  Lardner,  red-faced,  snowy- 


HILL  RISE  55 

pated,  carrying  a  heavy  croquet  mallet.  He  was  very  old,  and 
short-sighted  evidently,  because  he  doffed  his  high  helmet 
to  Lizzie,  mistaking  her  for  a  Hill  Eise  girl. 

Out  of  No.  15,  where  the  two  hired  broughams  were  wait- 
ing, came  a  whole  luncheon  party — the  eldest  Miss  Vigor, 
the  Vicar  of  St.  Barnabas,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrett,  and  Mrs. 
Padfield,  a  wonderful  old  dame  in  party  costume  with  vast 
black  bonnet,  lace  shawl,  and  purple  velvet  skirts.  They  all 
stared  at  Lizzie.  Opposite  the  white  gate  of  Hill  House  she 
paused  before  turning  into  the  footpath  which  runs  between 
Sir  John's  garden  wall  and  Lady  Haddingham's  meadows, 
and  leads  you  to  the  stile  that  "gives  entrance — for  all  well- 
behaved  persons — to  the  Crown  woods. 

A  gardener,  in  a  noble,  leisurely  manner,  was  sweeping  the 
smoothly  rolled  gravel  of  Sir  John's  carriage  drive ;  the  broad 
grass  border  had  been  made  like  striped  green  velvet  by  the 
passage  to  and  fro  of  the  pony-drawn  mowing  machine; 
rhododendrons  in  bloom  were  flaming  red  patches  between  big 
conifers — those  tall  and  stately  sentinels  guarding  the  ap- 
proach to  the  white  house  which,  though  so  near,  was  hidden 
from  the  prying  eyes  of  the  public.  A  peep  into  the  outer 
splendour,  and  no  more,  could  be  obtained  here  by  respectful 
townsfolk.  They  must  wait  for  one  of  Lady  Vincent's  chari- 
table fetes,  or  church-fund  garden  parties,  before  they  would 
be  able  to  pry  any  further.  Then  for  a  shilling  in  advance, 
or  eighteenpence  on  the  day,  they  might  go  in  boldly  and  see 
all  that  there  was  to  be  seen. 

As  Lizzie,  pausing,  took  her  peep,  there  came  the  sound  of 
four  iron  shoes  upon  the  gravel.  A  horse  coming  down  the 
drive !  She  turned  abruptly,  hurried,  almost  ran,  along  the 
footpath;  and  then  paused  again,  and  from  the  shadow  be- 
neath the  garden  wall  looked  back  to  the  sunlit  road. 

A  little  girl  trotted  from  the  lodge  or  gardener's  cottage, 
held  the  gate  open,  and  Lizzie,  breathless  after  her  short 
flight,  pressing  a  hand  on  her  side  to  still  the  beating  of  her 
heart,  saw  Mr.  Jack  Vincent,  in  white  breeches  and  brown 
boots,  ride  out  on  a  beautiful  grey  horse. 

Languidly  she  strolled  on,  and  then,  once  again  pausing, 
gazed  across  the  meadows  at  the  sacred  precincts  of  the 


56  HILL  RISE 

Tennis  Club.  There  were  high  nets  and  wire  fences  to  hold 
in  the  bouncing  tennis  balls;  the  sunshine  glittered  on  the 
red  tiles  and  golden  vane  of  the  club  pavilion;  men  and 
girls  were  lounging  in  the  cool  veranda;  voices  of  energetic 
tennis  players  rang  out  cheerily  as  they  called  the  game; 
there  were  wicker  chairs  with  red  cushions,  there  were  tent 
umbrellas  furled  and  unfurled;  there  was  sunlight,  laughter, 
fun — it  seemed  a  happy  meeting-ground  for  gay,  light-hearted 
people.  Presently,  while  she  watched,  the  white  breeches  and 
brown  boots  of  Mr.  Vincent  reappeared.  He  had  come  riding 
through  another  promptly  opened  gate,  and,  sitting  at  ease 
upon  his  horse,  was  observing  the  skill  or  blunders  of  some 
ardent  croquet-players. 

The  club  ground  was,  of  course,  open  to  members  only. 
But  the  woods  were  open  to  all  the  world;  and  to-day  the 
woods  were  lovely.  The  sweet-smelling  hawthorns  were  like 
trees  after  a  snowstorm;  beneath  the  slender  beeches  the 
ground  was  a  carpet  of  flowers;  primroses,  violets,  bluebells 
drove  one  back  to  the  grass  tracks  for  fear  one  should  tread  on 
them.  Butterflies  hovered  above  shafts  of  rainbow  light ;  birds 
sang,  and  from  a  distance  came  the  lowing  of  cattle  in  the 
fields  by  the  river. 

Lizzie  sat  on  a  dry  bank,  and  read  and  mused  and  dreamed. 
The  woods  might  have  belonged  to  her,  or  to  the  birds,  instead 
of  to  the  Sovereign.  No  one  came  to  disturb  her.  When  she 
roused  herself  and  looked  at  her  new  watch,  she  was  surprised. 
The  giver  of  the  watch — papa — would  be  expecting  her  at 
the  tea-table. 

As  she  reached  the  stile,  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side 
again  and  drew  long,  deep  breaths.  All  the  afternoon  she 
had  been  weaving  her  silly  dreams,  and  now  she  was  dreaming 
still  of  quite  impossible  things. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Crunden,  walking  about  the  town  as  was 
his  wont,  had  contrived  to  fill  in  the  hours  without  suffering 
from  ennui.  He  looked  at  the  same  objects  every  day,  and 
yet  they  always  interested  him. 

There  was  the  Town  Hall  which  had  cost  him  his  seat 
on  the  Council.  It  was  a  monstrously  pretentious  edifice:  a 


HILL  RISE  57 

fine  example  of  that  style  of  architecture  which  is  technically 
known  as  "streaky  bacon" — red  brick  to  represent  the  lean, 
white  stone  for  the  fat — and  "Hedgehog  Crunden"  looked  at 
it  almost  every  day  with  unutterable,  wide-reaching  contempt. 
Sevenpence  in  the  pound  added  to  the  rates  for  that! 

There  were  all  the  houses — scattered  and  in  compact  rows 
— which  he  had  built  for  others,  or  for  himself  as  a  specula- 
tion, to  be  sold  as  soon  as  finished  to  any  one  who  would  buy. 
He  looked  at  them  long  and  hard,  and  each  had  its  story — 
its  intensely  interesting  story — to  tell  him.  He  had  been 
lucky  in  nearly  all  his  ventures;  but  some  houses  had  gone 
off  quickly,  while  others  had  hung  on  hand,  keeping  him 
awake  at  night  before  he  got  rid  of  them.  Now  he  was  clear 
of  brick  and  mortar  investments,  all  his  money  safe  out  of 
such  precarious  property,  with  only  good,  well-secured  ground 
rents  and  sound  stocks  and  shares  to  lie  thinking  about  when 
he  could  not  sleep. 

He  used  to  stand  at  corners  steadily  examining  the  state 
of  repair  of  buildings  in  which  he  had  never  held  a  stake — 
estimating  rentals,  or  framing  schedules  of  dilapidations,  and 
specifications  for  putting  "the  same"  in  a  tenantable  condi- 
tion. Thus,  mentally  busy,  he  would  loiter  at  the  end  of 
a  terrace  that  might  well  serve  as  a  lesson  to  all  ambitious 
builders.  This  Eiver  View,  as  it  was  called,  had  been  put 
up  by  old  Selby,  once  the  successful  rival  of  the  Crundens. 
Fifteen  solidly  built  houses  which  from  the  first  were  a  dismal 
failure.  Nothing  would  make  people  live  in  River  View.  Ten 
out  of  the  fifteen  houses  were  empty ;  agents'  boards  hung  out 
like  white  flags  of  surrender  and  disgrace ;  the  town  boys  broke 
all  the  windows;  the  heavens,  spending  their  fury  on  roof 
and  gutters,  filled  the  areas  with  water;  and  old  Selby,  a 
white-haired,  shaky  scarecrow  in  threadbare  black  clothes, 
passed  his  days  imploring  mortgagees  for  grace,  arranging 
overdrafts  with  bankers,  praying  friends  and  chance  acquaint- 
ance for  a  loan  to  keep  up  the  fire  insurance,  etc.,  etc. 

Not  far  from  this  most  ruinous,  pitiful  Eiver  View  there 
was  something  that  Richard  Crunden  never  passed  without  an 
almost  religious  consideration.  This  was  the  brick  archway 
that  led  into  his  own  yard.  He  had  let  the  deserted  yard 


58  HILL  RISE 

to  Smithers,  the  dairyman,  who  was  an  unsatisfactory,  un- 
substantial sort  of  tenant.  Mr.  Crunden  saw  with  displeasure 
the  dirty  state  of  the  paving,  the  injurious  treatment  of  the 
wooden  gates  and  iron  hinges;  then,  dismissing  annoyance 
from  his  mind,  studied  the  wall  with  the  arch. 

It  had  been  built  by  his  father — with  his  own  hands.  Dick 
Crunden  had  admired  it  as  a  boy,  and  he  admired  it  still, 
for  what  it  was — an  enduring  specimen  of  honest,  painstak- 
ing, highly-skilled  bricklaying.  With  a  curious  tenderness 
and  pride  he  traced  the  neat  lap  of  the  good  English  bond, 
alternate  rows  of  stretchers  and  headers  till  you  reached  the 
fine-gauged  work  of  the  arch  itself,  the  close  joints,  and  the 
beautiful  rubbed  bricks.  He,  too,  in  his  time  had  set  the  line 
and  used  the  trowel — learning  his  trade  from  the  bottom, 
although  his  father  was  a  prosperous  employer ; — and  he  could 
understand  and  appreciate  all  the  great  excellence  of  this 
monument. 

As  he  walked  on  again,  he  would  think  of  the  grandson 
of  the  arch-builder — of  the  boy  Dick  who  had  failed  him. 
For  him  work  had  been  made  so  easy,  and  yet  he  would 
not  work.  "Bring  him  back,  father,  .  .  .  for  my  sake/' 

"No,  let  him  have  his  lesson."  Hedgehog  Crunden  could 
hear  the  pleading  voice,  could  see  the  pale  tear-stained  face 
of  his  loved  lost  wife.  She  was  by  his  side  now,  he  was 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  a  ghost,  when  Mr.  Sholto  of  Hill 
Rise  gave  him  a  patronising  nod;  and  he  touched  his  hat 
automatically,  uttered  a  mannerless,  absent-minded  grunt  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  "How  do,  Crunden?" 

With  any  excuse,  however  flimsy,  he  would  climb  the  stairs 
to  the  first-floor  office  of  Mr.  Dowling,  and  enjoy  a  quiet  chat 
with  that  clever  architect  and  good  freemason.  To-day  he 
found  his  excuse  in  the  fact  that  the  ground-floor  shop, 
hitherto  occupied  by  young  French  the  hatter,  was  empty, 
with  "To  let"  bills  in  the  windows. 

"Well,  I  am  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Crunden — "him  coming 
to  grief  after  opening  with  all  that  flourish  of  trumpets.  I 
thought  young  French  had  money  behind  him." 

"Not  a  penny,  so  it  seems,"  said  Mr.  Dowling.  "I  haven't 
got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet " 


HILL  RISE  59 

"Eogers  lost  any  rent  ?" 

"The  half-quarter — no  more.  Eogers  took  alarm  from 
something  that  came  to  his  ears;  thought  Master  French  was 
going  to  do  a  bolt.  So  he  pops  in  a  distraint,  and  that,  you 
may  say,  burst  the  bubble.  Jones  paid  it  off,  bought  the  whole 
stock,  and  they  began  moving  it  away  to  High  Street  four 
o'clock  yesterday." 

"He  was  an  arrogant  young  ass,"  said  Mr.  Crunden, 
"French  was;  but  I  certainly  thought  he  had  money  behind 
him." 

"What  I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  "is  who  I'm  going 
to  have  under  me  next.  I  wasn't  too  fond  of  the  hats,  but 
it  may  be  cheeses  and  bacon  this  time." 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  shop  yourself?  Use  it  for  your 
drawing-clerk,  and  put  all  your  framed  plans  on  the  wall." 

"I  only  wish  I  was  justified,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  opening 
his  hands  in  a  deprecating  gesture.  "Things  are  very  lifeless 
just  now — dreadfully  little  doing." 

Then  they  discussed  the  rent  of  the  shop.  Eogers,  the  land- 
lord, always  expected  to  get  his  sixty  pounds  a  year  because  of 
the  choice  position,  close  to  High  Street,  close  to  the  market, 
close  to  everything. 

"Sixty  per  annum  needs  a  bit  of  making,  Mr.  Crunden, 
as  times  go." 

Mr.  Dowling  was  a  thin  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  shining 
bald  forehead,  prominent  but  mild  eyes,  and  a  straggling  red- 
dish beard.  He  and  Crunden  were  old  allies  who  had  done 
much  business  together.  He  regretted  the  happy  days  when 
Crunden  used  to  come  in  warm  from  the  purchase  of  some 
odd  little  "cat-cornered"  field,  and,  putting  their  heads  to- 
gether, they  would  work  out  a  scheme  for  covering  the 
restricted  area  with  the  greatest  possible  number  of  snug  little 
villas.  Now,  although  there  was  no  business  hanging  to  it, 
he  was  always  glad  of  a  visit  from  Mr.  Crunden  and  never 
failed  to  greet  him  cordially. 

"I  believe  you're  right,  Mr.  Dowling — as  to  the  slackness. 
I  can't  remember  the  place  so  stagnant.  But,  for  all  that, 
you  don't  require  to  worry  yourself." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  "I  suppose  I  mustn't  complain. 


60  HILL  RISE 

I've  much  to  be  thankful  for.  But,  you  know,  I  like  to 
keep  moving.  I  like  to  be  earning,  not  resting.  I  like  to 
feel  independent." 

Mr.  Dowling  would  never  starve.  Mrs.  Dowling,  a  large 
and  rich-dressed  lady,  had  a  modest  competence  of  her  own. 
As  the  town  generally  understood,  she  was  far  from  desiring 
that  Mr.  Dowling  should  feel  too  independent.  She  had 
wooed  and  won  him  somewhat  late  in  life;  on  her  side,  at 
least,  it  was  a  love  match:  she  believed  him  to  be  a  danger- 
ously attractive  man,  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  had 
allowed  the  world  to  note  that  he  possessed  in  her  a  jealous 
guardian  as  well  as  a  faithful  helpmate. 

Even  now,  while  the  two  old  friends  sat  talking,  she  re- 
minded Mr.  Dowling  of  her  loving  concern  for  him. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  when  the  telephone  bell  rang.  "A 
message  from  home,  I  think."  Then,  as  he  stood  by  the 
instrument,  he  added  gallantly :  "A  great  comfort  being  con- 
nected with  one's  home." 

Mr.  Crunden  delicately  withdrew  to  the  window  and  looked 
down  into  the  quiet  sleepy  street. 

"Is  that  you,  my  dear?"  asked  Mr.  Dowling,  with  the  re- 
ceiver to  his  ear.  "No," — he  continued  very  blandly, — "I 
fear  that  is  impossible.  .  .  .  Yes,  dreadfully  pressed  to- 
day. ...  In  the  thick  of  my  work.  ...  I  doubt  if  I  can 
get  through  it  before  eight  o'clock,  but  I  shall  stick  to  it 
and  try  to  join  you  by  eight  o'clock.  .  .  .  Just  so.  Good-bye, 
my  dear,"  and  Mr.  Dowling  briskly  rang  off. 

Mr.  Crunden,  while  he  looked  out  of  the  window,  was 
faintly  smiling ;  but  when  he  turned  again  and  picked  up  his 
hat,  he  was  quite  grave. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Dowling.  "Don't  run  away.  What  were 
we  talking  about  ?  Sit  down  if  you're  not  in  a  hurry.  There 
was  something  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue — but,  for  the  moment, 
it's  gone.  It'll  come  back.  It'll  come  back  presently." 


CHAPTEE  IV 

SLOWLY  Lizzie  Crunden  was  losing  her  natural  gaiety 
of  disposition. 

She  loved  her  father,  she  loved  her  home;  but  outside 
of  King's  Cottage  she  had  neither  friends  nor  companions. 
Not  one  girl  friend  to  confide  in,  to  lean  on,  to  use  as  a  safe 
reservoir  for  the  discharge  of  bothering  fancies,  foolish  fears, 
and  all  girlish  nonsense — she  suffered  from  her  isolation. 

She  was  superior  in  all  things  to  the  town  girls.  When 
she  went  to  the  Town  Athletic  ground  where  some  of  the 
tradesmen's  daughters  played  games,  she  was  horrified  by  their 
vulgarity.  "Oh,  Lor',  oh,  Lor' !"  they  screamed  with  laughter 
at  the  jests  of  the  young  men  who  played  with  them.  They 
sat  upon  the  dusty  grass  and  contorted  themselves.  "'Erbert, 
will  you  be  quiet  unless  you  want  to  see  me  die  o'  larfing." 
Lizzie  was  disgusted.  It  really  seemed  that  old  Crunden  had 
been  too  successful  in  making  a  lady  of  her. 

The  Hill  girls  considered  her  immeasurably  beneath  them. 
She  could  find  no  friends  on  the  Hill.  She  encountered  the 
Hill  girls  at  charitable  bazaars,  and  then  they  were  patronis- 
ingly  familiar,  and  it  was:  "Come  here,  Miss  Crunden,  and 
buy  my  embroidered  cushion — do,  please."  "Put  into  this 
raffle,  Miss  Crunden."  "Miss  Crunden,  look  at  this."  But 
they  seemed  unable  to  recall  her  face,  much  more  her  name, 
when  they  met  her  anywhere  else.  They  would  only  consent 
to  know  Miss  Crunden  in  the  cause  of  charity. 

Irene  Hope,  who  tried  to  combine  Town  and  Hill,  offered 
something  like  friendship ;  but,  too  obviously,  Irene's  friend- 
ship was  not  worth  having.  Irene  was  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Hope,  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Medford  Advertiser.  Per- 
haps the  dread  power  of  the  press  was  never  better  shown  than 
by  the  acceptance  of  Miss  Hope  in  the  best  society ;  or  so  Mr. 
Hope  thought.  Irene  took  all  the  credit  to  herself.  She  was 

61 


62  HILL  RISE 

a  thin,  squirming,  large-eyed  girl,  who  treated  her  hair  with 
soda  and  marked  her  eyebrows  with  patent  pencils.  She  was 
all  sham,  right  through:  voice,  manner,  thoughts — a  tight- 
laced  bundle  of  affectation.  She  always  spoke  of  the  Hill 
Eise  girls  by  their  Christian  names — "Mabel  Blake  told  me — 
Nell  Granville  says  so,"  etc.  She  took  riding  lessons  with 
Mr.  Banker  the  riding-master,  and  had  his  photograph  in  a 
silver  frame  on  her  dressing-table  at  home. 

Visiting  Lizzie,  she  bragged  about  the  Hill  Eise  Tennis 
Club,  into  which  institution  she  had  somehow  squirmed  her- 
self. Lady  Haddenham,  she  told  Lizzie,  was  the  patroness; 
Sir  John  Vincent  was  president;  Jack  Vincent  was  a  vice- 
president.  There  were  ladies  on  a  committee — the  selection 
committee;  but  no  ladies  on  the  committee  of  management. 
It  was  terribly  select,  of  course.  They  had  to  pill  candidates 
connected  in  any  way  with  trade.  These  might  pass  muster 
on  the  playing  field,  but  there  was  the  annual  ball  you  had 
to  consider.  You  could  not  very  well  admit  them  to  that — 
and,  of  course,  membership  carried  the  right  to  attend  the 
ball  and  buy  three  additional  tickets. 

Not  to  braggart  Irene  could  one  talk  of  the  heroes  in  one's 
favourite  books,  or  the  splendid  shadows  in  one's  favourite 
dreams.  No  friend  here. 

Lizzie  thought  often  of  her  school  friends.  Many  of  these 
were  real  ladies,  owning  papas  who  had  big  country  houses, 
and  cousins  whose  papas  were  baronets  or  lords.  But  at 
school  there  were  no  snobbish,  painful  doubts  or  difficulties. 
It  was  a  republic  in  which  each  was  judged  on  her  merits: 
you  were  not  called  upon  to  plead  forbears  or  coats  of  arms 
in  order  to  obtain  justice.  No  one  shunned  Lizzie  because 
her  father  was  a  builder.  Since  her  schooldays  some  of 
these  dear,  real  friends  had  written  to  her,  but  they  were 
scattered  far  and  wide:  she  had  never  seen  one  of  them. 
They  wrote  affectionately,  on  the  old  equal  terms ;  but  if  they 
ever  came  to  Medford,  they  would  find  that  Lizzie  was  socially 
impossible,  and  then  they,  too,  no  doubt,  would  look  down 
on  her. 

But  now,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  she  stood  face  to 
face  with  Sybil  Goring,  late  of  the  Eastbourne  Seminary. 


HILL  RISE  63 

"Lizzie  Crunden,  don't  you  remember  me?  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you." 

This  was  at  the  Circulating  Library  kept  by  Mr.  Mees, 
in  addition  to  his  famous  stationery  and  fancy  store.  Miss 
Goring  had  been  invited  to  Medford  by  Miss  Annendale,  and 
was  now  staying  at  No.  17,  Hill  Eise.  As  a  stranger,  she 
would  know  nothing  of  the  laws  of  local  society.  She  rejoiced 
in  this  chance  meeting  with  an  ancient  classmate,  prattled 
freely  and  affectionately,  and  at  once  introduced  Lizzie  to 
the  proud  Miss  Annendale. 

"Oh,  yes,  how  do  you  do  ?"  said  Miss  Annendale  graciously. 
"You  live  at  the  white  cottage,  don't  you?  So  quaint  and 
pretty — I  always  admire  it." 

Miss  Goring  declared  that  she  must,  without  delay,  see 
dear  Lizzie's  pretty  cottage:  she  and  Miss  Annendale  would 
call  one  afternoon  very  soon. 

"Yes,"  thought  Lizzie,  "she  won't  call.  All  the  way  home 
Miss  Annendale  will  be  telling  her  about  me — and  about  papa. 
Instead  of  coming,  Sybil  will  write  me  a  little  note  to  say  that 
there  were  engagements  she  had  not  remembered." 

But  Miss  Goring  appeared  to  have  a  strong  character,  and 
could  not  be  shaken  from  her  purpose,  however  unconven- 
tional. If  her  hosts  explained  the  nature  of  the  solecism  she 
was  bent  on  committing,  she  was  not  frightened.  Perhaps, 
deriving  courage  from  distant  cousins  with  handles  to  their 
names,  she  heard  all  about  the  Medford  social  code,  and  pooh- 
poohed  its  stringent  regulations.  Anyhow,  she  came  to  King's 
Cottage — and  compelled  Miss  Annendale  to  come  with  her. 

She  was  quite  unchanged — just  the  old  school  Sybil;  and 
she  and  Lizzie  chattered  as  happily  as  though  they  had  been 
back  in  the  schoolroom  on  a  wet  half-holiday.  She  asked 
innumerable  questions ;  and  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  laugh- 
ing reminiscences,  this  bold  Miss  Goring  abruptly  declared 
that  Lizzie  ought  to  belong  to  the  Hill  Eise  Tennis  Club. 
Miss  Annendale  must  arrange  this. 

Miss  Annendale,  startled  by  the  suggestion,  began  to  speak 
with  a  drawl.  She  had  been  very  polite — courteous  as  a 
young  lady  doing  district  visiting,  admiring  and  praising  the 
cottage,  always  anxious  to  put  the  cottage  folk  at  their  ease. 


64  HILL  RISE 

"Oh,  yes/7  said  Miss  Annendale,  drawling,  "but  would  Miss 
Crunden  care  to  join?  Do  you  play  tennis,  Miss  Crunden?" 

"Of  course  she  does,"  said  Sybil;  "and  of  course  she'll  join. 
You  must  arrange  it." 

To  poor  Lizzie  the  suggestion  was  like  the  opening  of  a 
guarded  door,  showing  a  glimpse  of  paradise — no  less.  She 
had  no  snobbish  desire  to  be  a  swell,  but  simply  felt  a  girlish 
honest  wish  for  amusement  in  pleasant  company.  Miss 
Annendale  was  being  nice  and  kind  to-day;  and  Lizzie, 
warmed  by  unusual  kindness,  was  eager  to  believe  that 
a  new  era  was  beginning.  Surely  if  Miss  Annendale  and 
her  friends  could  support  Irene,  one  might  venture  to  hope — 
and  yet?  It  seemed  too  much  to  hope  for. 

Lizzie  told  her  father  of  the  honour  that  was  to  be  thrust 
upon  her.  Did  he  object  to  her  being  put  down  as  a  candidate  ? 
It  was  a  very,  very  nice  club,  and  she  would  love  to  be  a 
member.  But  what  did  father  really  think  about  it?  The 
subscription  was  two  guineas,  and  there  was  an  entrance  fee. 
But  this  was  the  real  point — and  Lizzie  in  her  excitement 
entirely  failed  to  force  it  adequately  upon  her  father's  atten- 
tion: Dared  one  try  to  spring  in  one  splendid  bound  from 
the  parlour  of  King's  Cottage  into  the  wired  meadows  almost 
at  the  top  of  Hill  Rise? 

"Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  failing  to  see  the  point 
clearly,  only  thinking  of  the  subscription — scarcely  thinking 
at  all.  "Why  not,  my  dear  ?  I  don't  grudge  the  fees.  I  only 
want  you  to  have  your  pleasure." 

Then  Lizzie  was  all  excitement.  As  had  been  arranged,  she 
wrote  to  Miss  Annendale  to  say  "yes,  please";  thought  of  the 
club,  dreamed  of  the  club,  passed  her  wardrobe  in  review ;  went 
to  Selkirk's  and  bought  another  blue  washing  frock  with  white 
spots,  very  like  but  not  exactly  like  her  last  blue  frock,  an- 
other hat,  etc.,  etc. ;  and  then  waited  in  high  and  happy  ex- 
pectation. 

Miss  Annendale,  solemnly  charged  by  her  departing  guest  to 
get  Miss  Crunden  into  the  club,  did  in  fact  make  the  attempt  in 
a  half-hearted  manner.  The  learned  Dr.  Blake  was  obtained 
for  proposer;  and  Miss  Annendale  seconded,  but  did  not 
canvass.  "What  has  possessed  you  to  do  this?"  asked  lady 


HILL  RISE  65 

members.  "I  couldn't  help  doing  it,"  said  Miss  Annendale 
apologetically.  "I  was  asked — and  I  really  couldn't  refuse." 

And  so  in  due  course  Lizzie  came  up  for  election,  and 
was  rigorously  pilled. 

Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  hands  trembled  with  excitement,  as 
she  opened  the  big  official  club  envelope  and  pulled  out  the 
secretary's  letter.  Then,  as  she  read,  her  face  flushed,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  was  like  a  child  disappointed  of 
its  longed-for  treat,  loath  to  believe  that  fate  can  be  so 
unkind. 

Old  Crunden  took  the  letter  from  her  and  read  the  formal 
expression  of  the  secretary's  regret.  He  was  cruelly  huffed. 

"Father,  does  it  mean  I  am  postponed — or  they  won't 
have  me?" 

"They  won't  have  you — because  you  are  my  daughter. 
They're  too  high  and  mighty  for  us,  my  girl — that  is,  for  me. 
You're  all  right — as  they  know  well  enough — but  they  can't 
forgive  you  for  being  my  daughter." 

He,  too,  had  flushed,  and  he  brandished  his  arms  excitedly 
while  he  walked  about  the  room. 

After  this  rebuff,  poor  Lizzie  became  very  languid.  She 
fell  back  on  her  books  as  her  only  friends.  Walks  tired  her. 
She  was  with  her  father  all  the  morning,  helped  him  as 
much  as  she  could,  wrote  letters  for  him  whenever  he  would 
accept  secretarial  assistance ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  liked 
to  sit  in  the  garden  summerhouse,  reading,  looking  out  at 
the  roofs  of  Medford,  thinking  of  the  past  and  dreaming  of 
the  future. 

In  many  red-brick  villas  of  the  minor  gentry  on  the  Town 
Athletic  ground,  and  among  the  tradesmen's  families  as  they 
came  from  church  and  chapel,  the  story  was  told  of  Lizzie 
Crunden's  pushingness  and  the  snub  she  had  earned  for 
herself. 

Miss  Irene  Hope,  in  her  riding-habit,  after  a  long  ride 
with  Mr.  Banker,  called  on  Lizzie  to  commiserate.  Miss  Hope 
was  too  sorry  for  words. 

"If  only  you  had  consulted  me,"  said  Miss  Hope,  "I  should 
have  given  you  a  hint  of  what  was  coming.  But  I  never  heard 
of  it  till  it  was  over.  I  rather  wonder  you  didn't  ask  my 


66  HILL  RISE 

advice  after  all  I  told  you  about  the  rules,  you  know.  It 
would  have  been  so  easy — when  one  saw  which  way  the  wind 
was  blowing — to  get  your  name  withdrawn — in  time,  you 
know." 

"It  is  not  of  the  smallest  consequence,"  said  Lizzie  coldly. 
"I  don't  in  the  least  mind." 

"Don't  you  ?  Quite  right,  too.  But  for  all  that,  I  do  wish 
it  could  have  been  avoided.  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any 
idea  what  a  talk  it  has  made." 

"jSTo,  I  don't  know — and  I  don't  care." 

"One  thing,"  said  Miss  Hope,  "you  can  thank  me  for. 
I  have  kept  it  out  of  the  paper.  I  made  papa  promise  that 
not  a  line  about  it  should  appear  in  the  paper." 

Lizzie  hit  upon  more  than  one  crushingly  contemptuous 
reply  to  such  mock  sympathy — but  only  after  Miss  Hope  had 
gone.  At  the  time,  she  herself  was  crushed  and  without 
crushing  power.  It  was  hateful  to  knew  that  all  the  world 
was  talking  of  her  disaster.  Once  she  asked  her  father  if  he 
believed  it  had  truly  caused  such  a  stir  in  Medford.  But 
Mr.  Crunden  would  not  speak  of  the  affair  again.  He  bristled 
with  indignation  whenever  he  thought  of  it,  but  he  would 
not  speak  of  it  to  Lizzie. 

"What  does  it  matter?  Who  cares!  Let  'em  keep  to 
themselves,  say  I.  Keep  out  of  our  way  and  we'll  keep  out 
of  theirs."  Then,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  sternness,  "Get  on 
with  your  work,  my  girl,  and  don't  bother  me  about  it 
any  more." 

And  obediently  Lizzie  attended  to  her  light  tasks — helping 
papa;  but,  as  Mrs.  Price  said,  she  was  very  languid  and  list- 
less. 

"Don't  you  notice  it,  sir,  yourself  ?"  said  Mrs.  Price.  "List- 
less-like.  Not  taking  no  interest  in  nothing.  I  notice  it." 


CHAPTER  V 

How  rich  was  Sir  John  Vincent? 

It  was  perhaps  only  when  one  was  comparing  it  with  the 
lesser  establishments  of  Medford  generally  that  Hill  House 
seemed  such  a  palace  and  the  state  there  maintained  so  court- 
like.  Butler  and  two  footmen — these  dazzled  eyes  used  only 
to  parlour-maids,  and  rendered  calmly  critical  judgment  im- 
possible. The  house  was  really  of  moderate  size — nothing  but 
a  mere  box  of  bricks  to  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Wace,  the  brewer, 
five  miles  off  at  Eedmarsh:  but  the  porch  was  palatial;  the 
ample  hall  had  a  black  and  white  pavement;  and  in  the 
dining-room  there  were  marble  columns  and  a  vaulted  ceiling. 
For  the  rest,  the  house  was  merely  comfortable  and  pleasant — 
chintz-covered  chairs,  pretty  china,  flowering  plants  in  my 
lady's  drawing-room  and  the  morning-room,  really  shabby 
old  furniture  in  Sir  John's  library  study;  and  yet  the  swift 
impression  given  to  all  local  visitors  was  of  a  most  satisfying 
pomp  and  splendour. 

Through  open  doors  one  had  a  glimpse  of  her  ladyship's 
conservatory;  through  the  big  French  windows  one  looked 
out  on  smooth  lawns,  gay  parterres,  yew  hedges,  at  mellow 
walls  of  kitchen  garden  with  glass  roofs  showing  over  them,  or 
at  the  small  meadows  and  one  or  two  of  Sir  John's  Jersey 
cows.  There  were  ten  acres  in  all,  as  visitors  well  knew; 
there  were  at  least  five  gardeners;  there  must  be  an  odd  man 
indoors  to  assist  Mr.  Short,  the  butler,  and  his  two  footmen 
in  the  brown  coats  and  canary  collars ;  there  were  six  or  seven 
horses  in  the  stables,  with  coachman  and  groom  in  brown  and 
canary,  and  two,  possibly  three,  helpers  in  shirt-sleeves  and 
belts.  How  much  would  it  all  cost  to  keep  up  ?  To  Medford, 
completely  and  forever  dazzled,  fabulous  wealth  seemed 
necessary. 

Sir  John  himself  shed  forth  dignity  and  importance.  His 

67 


68  HILL  RISE 

• 

admirers — and  they  were  the  entire  neighbourhood — said  he 
was  the  very  type  and  pattern  of  a  well-bred  English  country 
gentleman.  He  always  did  the  right  thing,  said  the  right 
thing,  without  apparent  thought  or  effort — just  naturally.  He 
was  an  ideal  chairman  of  the  bench  of  magistrates,  of  politi- 
cal meetings,  of  hospital  boards — on  all  public  occasions  he 
handsomely  filled  the  most  prominent  post  you  could  put 
him  in. 

He  was  tall,  thin,  erect,  with  neatly-clipped  grey  hair, 
well-trimmed  grey  moustache,  a  fresh  healthy  complexion; 
and  he  looked  so  much  younger  than  his  age  that  he  might 
well  have  been  taken  for  his  son's  brother.  He  was  like  Jack 
Vincent  except  as  to  the  eyes.  Mr.  Jack  had  his  mother's 
blue  eyes,  and  the  eyes  of  Sir  John  were  brown.  Lady  Vin- 
cent was  placid  in  temperament,  and  Sir  John  was  full  of 
restless  activity.  Born  to  greatness,  doomed  by  his  rank 
to  elegant  idleness,  he  had  made  himself  at  least  a  busy 
idler. 

He  was  in  truth  quite  free  from  "side"  or  swagger,  and  yet 
you  could  not  talk  to  him  for  five  minutes  without  under- 
standing that  he  was  pleased,  enormously  pleased,  to  be  Sir 
John  Vincent,  Baronet,  of  Hill  House.  In  the  privacy  of  the 
home  circle  he  would  sometimes  with  openness  speak  of  "the 
necessity  of  keeping  up  one's  position,"  of  the  "things  ex- 
pected of  one,"  etc.  He  would  pish  and  pshaw  when  he  read 
a  birthday  list  of  honours,  and  found  to  his  disgust  that  they 
had  again  been  making  baronets.  A  pity,  that.  Too  many  of 
us  already.  He  loved  his  order;  never  failed  to  join  societies 
for  the  protection  of  the  privileges  of  the  baronetage,  for 
the  exposure  and  punishment  of  spurious  baronets,  etc.  He 
was  firmly  of  opinion  that  a  fight  should  be  made  for  the 
ancient  or  pretended  custom  by  virtue  of  which  the  eldest 
son  of  a  baronet  might  assume  the  style  of  a  knight  as  soon 
as  he  was  twenty-one. 

"Eh,  Jack?  You  might  be  Sir  John  now.  What  do  you 
say  to  that?" 

"Oh,  I  say  one  Sir  John  is  enough  in  a  family." 

Mr.  Vincent  and  his  father  were  the  best  of  friends,  al- 
though the  father  deplored  the  son's  lack  of  interest  in  im- 


HILL  RISE  69 

portant  matters.  Very  small  things  sometimes  interested  the 
good  baronet,  and  evoked  immense  energy  and  activity.  Mr. 
Vincent  was  inclined  to  a  sort  of  languid  facetiousness  of 
manner  when  speaking  of,  or  talking  to,  "the  Guv'nor."  He 
addressed  him  often  as  Sir  John,  with  a  quite  amiable  but  a 
mocking  deference;  and  this  sometimes  caused  annoyance. 
Sir  John  was  averse  from  making  fun  of  serious  things. 

"Hallo,  Sir  John,"  Mr.  Jack  would  say,  coming  upon  his 
father  busy  in  the  garden  with  a  squad  of  labourers.  "What 
are  you  up  to  now?" 

"I  want  to  cut  away  that  bank  and  fill  up  the  ground 
to  the  same  level  as  far  as  the  railings." 

"What  a  lark." 

"Jack,  this  isn't  a  chaffing  matter.  I  have  started,  so  I 
suppose  I  must  go  on  with  it — but  it's  more  than  I  bar- 
gained for:  it'll  be  a  deucedly  expensive  job." 

Sir  John,  however  rich  he  might  be,  certainly  never  said  he 
was  rich.  Indeed,  he  bewailed  himself  because  of  the  con- 
tinual drain  on  his  resources,  lamented  the  attacks  upon  prop- 
erty by  each  new  government,  the  enhanced  cost  of  living,  the 
steady  increase  of  wages,  and  the  depreciation  in  value  of 
the  safest  investments.  "I  don't  know  what  the  world's  coming 
to.  I  am  not  chaffing,  Jack.  Standing  expenses — of  our  posi- 
tion and  so  forth — are  always  going  up,  and  I  can't  keep 
them  down." 

When  Sir  John  indulged  in  this  form  of  lamentation — so 
common  with  even  the  richest  men — he  nearly  always  passed, 
by  a  natural  sequence  of  ideas,  to  the  health  or  rather  ill- 
health  of  his  afflicted  old  cousin.  Miss  Vincent — poor  dear 
cousin  Harriet — lived  at  Bournemouth,  surrounded  with 
nurses,  doctors,  and  faithful  maids.  The  accounts  of  her 
state  were  more  and  more  distressing.  All  her  senses  were 
failing;  one  had  to  feed  her  like  a  baby,  and  her  appetite  was 
voracious,  though  she  could  not  enjoy  Avhat  she  ate.  When 
the  end  came,  all  her  money  must  go  to  Sir  John.  But  the 
end  was  such  a  plaguey  long  time  in  coming. 

"It  would,"  said  Sir  John  solemnly,  "be  a  relief  to  her — 
and  I  don't  mind  owning  it  would  be  a  relief  to  me." 

"Poor  dear !"  said  Lady  Vincent  compassionately. 


70  HILL  RISE 

"Exactly,"  said  Sir  John.  "Heaven  forbid  I  should  wish 
to  shorten  any  one's  days  if  it  wouldn't  be  a  happy  escape." 

"How  old  is  she  now?"  asked  Mr.  Jack. 

"Cousin  Harriet  must  be  seventy  at  the  least." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  Jack.  "She'll  do  another  twenty 
years  if  she  goes  slow  and  steady." 

"I  wish,"  said  Sir  John  irritably,  "you'd  understand  that 
this  isn't  a  chaffing  matter." 

Mr.  Jack  laughed  good-humouredly.  So  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  the  old  cousin  might  live  to  a  hundred — to  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty.  They  had  more  than  enough  already — why 
wish  for  more?  Neither  he  nor  his  mamma  troubled  about 
money  or  the  management  of  the  money.  Sir  John  was 
purse-bearer,  manager,  controller  of  the  household.  He  acted 
as  steward  for  Lady  Vincent,  who  had  a  private  income  of 
seven  hundred  a  year.  She  was  well  content  to  hand  this  over 
to  Sir  John,  and  be  saved  all  further  worry.  He  acted  also 
as  steward  for  Jack,  who  had  no  regular  allowance.  Sir 
John  paid  Jack's  bills,  provided  horses,  saddlery,  etc.,  and 
supplied  pocket  money.  Mr.  Jack  was,  moreover,  a  sort  of 
floating  charge  on  the  butler's  book.  He  appeared  amidst 
candles,  plate-paste,  odd  jobs,  and  sundries  in  Short's  weekly 
records.  "To  Bates — repairs  to  liveries,  twenty-seven  shil- 
lings ;  to  telegrams  —  eighteenpence ;  to  parcels  —  three 
shillings;  to  Mr.  John — one  pound  ten."  If  the  total  of 
Short's  book  was  heavy,  one  knew  one  would  see  frequent 
entries  of  "Mr.  John."  It  was  an  odd  childish  arrangement, 
but  it  suited  Mr.  John,  who  was  not  oppressed  by  a  heavy 
sense  of  personal  dignity.  And  the  fact  was :  when  you  gave 
him  a  regular  allowance,  he  always  exceeded  it  and  you  could 
not  keep  him  out  of  the  book. 

In  Sir  John's  own  room  there  were  black  tin  boxes,  shabby 
old  desks,  and  cupboards  below  the  bookcases  all  full  of 
docketed  letters,  solicitors'  papers,  etc.,  a  safe  to  hold  still  more 
important  papers,  and  a  large  writing  table  laden  with  an 
extraordinary  accumulation  of  documents,  pamphlets,  jour- 
nals, etc.,  etc.  Here,  on  certain  mornings  when  he  was  not 
busily  employed  in  stable  or  garden  management,  he  would  sit 
like  a  faithful  house  steward  and  tidy  up.  He  had  special 


HILL  RISE  71 

mornings  for  cheque-writing.  "Sir  John  is  writing  of  the 
cheques,"  Short  used  to  say  magnificently  to  tradesmen  calling 
for  orders.  "I  shall  be  taking  them  round  this  afternoon." 

So  deeply  did  the  tradesmen  respect  Sir  John  that  they 
were  as  proud  of  being  appointed  purveyors  to  Hill  House  as 
if  they  had  received  the  Eoyal  Warrant.  Sir  John  paid  them 
in  a  splendid  old-fashioned  style  with  cheques  on  account — 
the  noble  old  way  which  tradesmen  love,  which  postpones  the 
sordid  scrutiny  of  prices,  which  softens  the  ugly  look  of  the 
biggest  items,  and  by  the  passage  of  time  renders  big  and 
small  unassailable. 

"Good-day  to  you,  Brown,"  Sir  John  used  to  say  in  the 
High  Street.  "Don't  you  want  a  cheque?  Aren't  I  running 
into  your  debt  pretty  heavily?  Hadn't  I  better  send  you 
fifty  on  account?" 

"Thank  you,-  Sir  John,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  bowing  and 
smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands  together.  "Whenever  con- 
venient to  you,  Sir  John — and  not  before." 

Mr.  Brown  did  not,  of  course,  mean  to  imply  that  he 
thought  it  could  ever  be  inconvenient  for  Sir  John  to  part  with 
fifty  pounds.  He  only  meant  that  Sir  John  must  not  be 
troubled  to  take  pen  in  hand  until  there  came  round  again  the 
hour,  about  which  Short  had  often  told  them,  for  the  writing 
of  the  cheques. 

Jack  habitually  endeavoured  to  hit  off  this  auspicious  hour 
when  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  do  what  he  quaintly  described 
as  "biting  the  ear"  of  his  Guv'nor. 

"While  you  are  about  it,  Sir  John,  you  might  write  me  one." 

"What !  Again,  Jack  ?  Surely  you  are  not  run  out  again  ? 
I  can't  think  what  you  do  with  money.  You  never  seem 
to  be  able  to  keep  any  in  your  pockets." 

"No,  I  don't,  do  I  ?    It's  a  most  extraordinary  thing." 

"Well,  how  much  am  I  to  give  you  now  ?" 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  to  put  a  limit  on  you ;"  and  Jack  would 
smile  genially.  "I  don't  want  much — just  something  to  rub 
along  with." 

Then  Sir  John,  caught  thus  holding  the  cheque-book  open 
before  him,  complied  with  his  son's  request.  As  he  said  him- 
self, he  would  rather  that  Jack  should  come  to  him  for  petty 


72  HILL  RISE 

cash  in  the  lump  than  that  he  should  get  it  from  Short  in 
driblets. 

But  now  it  seemed  that  Jack  had  come  to  his  steward  at  a 
wrong  time,  and  the  steward  was  making  difficulties. 

"I  say,  Sir  John,  d'you  mind  if  I  bite  your  ear  for  a 
tenner  ?" 

"Upon  my  word,  Jack,  you  really  are  insatiable." 

"I  only  said  a  tenner.  I  suppose  that  won't  land  you  in 
the  Bankruptcy  Court ;"  and  for  a  moment  or  two  Jack  seemed 
seriously  offended  by  his  father's  protest. 

"Don't  talk  bosh,"  said  Sir  John  hastily.  "A  tenner's  noth- 
ing, of  course — but  I  am  confoundedly  pressed  for  ready 
money — just  now.  And  what  on  earth  do  you  want  it  for? 
Give  me  your  bills  and  I'll  tackle  them." 

"It  isn't  a  bill,"  said  Jack.  "But  if  you're  as  hard  up  as 
all  that,  don't  you  bother.  It's  of  no  consequence." 

"You  shall  have  it  to-morrow,  Jack.  I'll  give  you  a  cheque 
to-morrow — or  next  day  at  latest."  < 

"Thanks.    But  not  if  you  can't  spare  it." 

"Of  course  I  can  spare  it.     What's  a  tenner  ?" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  thought,"  said  Jack,  mollified  and  once 
more  smiling. 

After  this  little  conversation,  Sir  John,  joining  his  wife 
in  the  garden,  talked  to  her  rather  dolefully  about  his  old 
cousin. 

"Do  you  remember  what  Jack  said  one  day — not  really 
meaning  it,  but  just  pulling  iny  leg — about  Harriet  lasting  till 
she  was  ninety?" 

"Poor  old  dear !" 

"Yes,  exactly.  But,  do  you  know,  it  appears  she  is  un- 
doubtedly better  than  she  was.  I  heard  from  Dr.  Lacy  this 
morning.  I  wrote  to  say  how  anxious  we  were,  and  asked  him 
for  an  explicit  statement.  He  says  I  have  frightened  myself 
needlessly.  Certainly  no  cause  for  immediate  fear.  Upon 
my  word,"  said  Sir  John,  "I  begin  to  think  she  will  go  on 
to  ninety." 

"I  suppose  one  can't  wish  it  for  her  sake,  but  it  does  seem  so 
dreadful  to  wish  anything  else." 


HILL  RISE  73 

"It  is  what  I  have  always  said.  These  old  women  are  like 
creaking  doors — they  just  hang  on.  Look  at  Lady  Hadden- 
ham — eighty  if  she's  a  day — but,  Abinger  tells  me,  full  of 
vitality." 

Lady  Vincent,  like  her  son,  felt  no  craving  for  further 
wealth.  Only  wifely  regard  made  her  wish  that  Sir  John 
might  as  soon  as  possible  have  another  fortune  to  play  with, 
and  enable  her  to  persuade  herself  that  cousin  Harriet  would 
be  happier  out  of  the  world  than  in  it. 

Her  ladyship  admired  the  energy  of  her  husband,  looked  up 
to  him,  respected  him,  was  pleased  to  take  his  ideas  and  make 
them  her  own.  She  was  placidly  content,  thoroughly  enjoy- 
ing life,  fond  of  her  little  charities,  very  fond  of  Jack — with- 
out any  cares  beyond  occasional  anxious  thoughts  for  the  wel- 
fare of  Jack. 

She  had  no  personal  extravagance  that  demanded  large 
funds  for  its  gratification.  She  dressed  her  grey  hair  in  a 
severe  fashion,  drawing  it  back  in  curlless  bands  above  her 
ears;  and  her  costume  was  sober  and  sedate  with  rare  touches 
of  grandeur — such  as  sable  stole,  real  lace  scarf,  big  pearl  ear- 
rings, etc.  She  preferred  the  bonnet  to  the  hat.  Selkirk's 
windows  had  no  power  over  her;  and  if  one  did  not  know  the 
truth,  meeting  her  as  she  went  on  charitable  errands  to  her 
poor  sick  people,  one  might  have  thought  she  was  just  any- 
body— the  wife  of  the  vicar.  But  to  Medford  she  was  always 
grande  dame — aristocratic  of  feature,  noble  of  mien,  awe- 
inspiring  of  manner.  She  was  really  the  kindest  of  women, 
and  her  whole  face  lit  up  with  beaming  kindness  as  she  sat 
in  cottage  parlours  and  listened  to  the  troubles  of  her  humble 
friends  or  dependents.  In  general  society,  however,  she 
beamed  much  less  frequently ;  her  mind  was  apt  to  wander  at 
tea  and  dinner  parties,  and  when  she  lost  the  thread  of  the 
conversation,  she  had  a  quite  unconscious  trick  of  thought- 
fully studying  the  faces  of  those  about  her.  This  was  dis- 
concerting. Indeed,  the  most  vivaciously  prattling  young 
ladies  in  Medford  would  begin  to  stammer  and  soon  be  tongue- 
tied  when  they  found  her  ladyship's  blue  eyes  resting  on  them 
in  thoughtful  and,  as  it  often  seemed,  not  approving  con- 
sideration. 


74  HILL  RISE 

She  always  beamed  when  she  looked  at  her  son  Jack.  Then 
one  might  plainly  read  in  her  eyes,  kindness,  love,  and  admiring 
approval.  He  had  been  the  most  delightful  baby,  the  prettiest 
child,  the  most  attractive  boy ;  and  now  he  was  the  finest  young 
man  in  all  the  wide  world.  She  believed  in  Jack,  thought  he 
possessed  immense  natural  ability,  hoped  vaguely  that  he 
would  one  day  rouse  himself  and  achieve  great  deeds — go  into 
parliament  perhaps,  be  prime  minister:  do  something  grand 
at  last  to  show  how  right  she  had  always  been  in  her  estimate 
of  his  gifts  and  capacities. 

Meantime,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Jack  now  and  then 
filled  her  with  anxious  solicitude.  It  was  painful  to  think 
that  Jack  had  acquired  a  taste  for  low  company.  She  liked 
sick  people  in  cottages,  but  dreaded  healthy  vulgarians  walk- 
ing about  the  town.  This  freemasonry  was  most  regrettable. 
A  universal  brotherhood  with  butchers,  auctioneers,  surveyors, 
etc.,  was  fantastic  and  dangerous.  She  wished  that  Jack 
could  have  kept  clear  of  such  bonds.  His  Masonic  duties  took 
him  at  all  hours  to  the  White  Hart  Hotel — a  very  perilous 
place.  It  was  there  that,  as  Admiral  Lardner  once  said,  the 
awful  pegging  habit  was  learned.  Lady  Vincent  shivered 
in  her  comfortable  bed  when  she  thought  at  the  same  time 
of  that  appalling  Mr.  Lardner  and  of  her  own  son. 

"Oh,  Jack.  Please  don't.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  it," 
implored  Lady  Vincent. 

On  her  way  to  tea,  she  had  come  through  the  French  win- 
dows of  the  dining-room  and  found  Jack  at  the  sideboard 
preparing  a  peg.  He  had  just  filled  his  glass  with  the  de- 
stroying mixture.  The  spirit  decanter  and  the  siphon  told  the 
sad  story. 

"Only  a  very  little  one,"  said  Jack,  smiling. 

"Oh,  Jack !  It's  a  very  big  one — and  between  meals.  You 
can't  want  it." 

"Well,  I  somehow  thought  I  did." 

"And  at  tea  time,  too.    You  used  to  be  so  fond  of  tea." 

"Well,  yes.  But  the  doctors  scare  you  about  tea.  They 
make  out  people  overdo  it  with  tea.  Get  their  nerves  wrong — 
with  the  tannin  or  something." 

He  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  himself — exhibited 


HILL  RISE  75 

no  embarrassment  on  being  discovered  in  evil  practices.  He 
stood  with  the  well-filled  glass  in  his  hand,  and  smiled  at 
his  mother  affectionately  while  she  lectured  him. 

It  was  the  habit  that  terrified  her,  she  declared.  One 
does  a  thing  one  day  carelessly,  but  next  day  one  is  the  slave 
of  custom,  one  cannot  break  the  chain  one  has  heedlessly 
forged — and  so  forth. 

"For  my  sake,  Jack,  break  the  habit.  If  you  knew  how 
unhappy  it  makes  me  to  see  you  do  it." 

"Would  it  make  you  happy  to  see  me  not  do  it?" 

"Indeed  it  would." 

"Then  be  happy  now.  Watch  me  carefully.  There  is 
no  deception." 

He  had  not  yet  taken  a  sip.  With  an  affectation  of  solem- 
nity he  marched  across  the  room  to  where  one  of  Lady  Vin- 
cent's white  azaleas  stood  in  a  blue  china  pot;  and  here  he 
poured  the  contents  of  his  glass  about  the  stem  of  the  shrub. 

"There!  You  see  if  this  doesn't  like  whiskey  and  soda. 
You  see  if  it  dies  of  it.  You  see — after  its  innocent  pick- 
me-up  it'll  be  a-growing  and  a-blowing  as  it  never  did 
before.  .  .  .  Now  perhaps  you'll  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  as  a 
reward  of  virtue." 

"Oh,  Jack,  you  have  made  me  so  happy." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Jack,  lightly  but  affectionately, 
as,  arm  in  arm,  he  and  his  mamma  went  to  the  morning-room 
to  drink  their  tea  together. 

"Will  you  be  back  to  dinner?"  asked  Lady  Vincent,  when, 
after  a  long  sitting  over  the  teacups,  Jack  was  about  to  go 
downtown. 

"No.     I'm  afraid  not  to-night.    I'm  dining  out." 

"Will  you  be  late?" 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  very  early." 

Lady  Vincent  would  not  ask  where  her  boy  intended  to  dine. 
Instinct  told  her  that  he  was  bound  for  the  White  Hart 
and  the  Masons,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  spoil  her  happy  after- 
noon by  being  quite  sure  about  it. 

It  was  in  the  course  of  this  evening  that  Sir  John  looked  up 
suddenly  from  his  Pall  Mall  Gazette  and  uttered  many  ejacu- 
lations of  surprise. 


76  HILL  RISE 

"Good  gracious!  Upon  my  word!  Only  speaking  of  her 
to-day — creaking  doors — and  she  was  gone  even  then.  Died 
suddenly — at  noon." 

"Oh,  John,  you  don't  say  so!     Oh,  poor  old  dear." 

Not  unnaturally,  Lady  Vincent  thought  he  was  speaking 
of  poor  cousin  Harriet.  But  it  was  the  other  creaking  door. 
Lady  Haddenham,  owner  of  Hill  Eise,  was  no  more. 

"We  regret,"  read  Sir  John,  "to  learn  of  the  death  of  the 
Dowager  Countess  of  Haddenham  ..."  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Sir  John  musingly,  when  he  had  recited  \ 
the  short  biographical  notice — "I  wonder  if  it  will  make  any 
difference  to  our  neighbours.  I  shouldn't  think  so.  I  sup- 
pose it  all  goes  to  Haddenham — and  he  wouldn't  do  any- 
thing shabby — like  bumping  up  the  rents.  Mr.  A.  and  Fir- 
mins  will  see  that  everybody  gets  fair  play.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't 
see  that  it  can  affect  our  friends.  But  it  affects  me  to  this 
extent.  I  really  think  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Burroughclere 
for  the  funeral — last  mark  of  respect.  I  think  they'll  look 
for  me  there — don't  you  ?" 


CHAPTEE  VI 

JACK  VINCENT  wanted  his  tenner  because  he  thought  the 
time  had  come  when  it  would  be  well  to  give  Jessie  Barter  a 
jewelled  bangle. 

He  had  given  many  bangles  to  young  ladies.  If  he  and  a 
young  lady  had  paid  attentions  to  each  other,  he  always 
presented  a  bangle  as  a  parting  gift — as  a  trifling  souvenir  of 
kind  thoughts,  confidential  chat,  and  whispered  endearments. 
A  point  was  reached  in  all  these  little  friendships  when  weari- 
ness overtook  him;  and  then  he  gave  the  bangle.  He  never 
explained  the  inward  secret  sense  of  the  glittering  toy.  Young 
ladies  thus  decorated  often  thought  that  the  bangle  meant  a 
tightening  of  the  pleasant  bond,  when  in  fact  it  meant  a  sever- 
ance. Miss  Daisy  Dolfin,  of  "The  Merry  Girls"  Touring 
Company,  would  glance  sentimentally  at  her  wrist,  and  tell 
dressing-room  companions  about  Jack.  "That  was  given  me 
by  such  a  nice  boy.  Oh,  he  was  a  nice  boy — but  I  lost  sight 
of  'im." 

Well,  then,  Jack  thought  that  Jessie,  the  White  Hart  junior 
barmaid,  had  earned  her  bangle,  and  that  for  his  own  comfort 
the  sooner  he  let  her  have  it  the  better.  With  Sir  John's  cheque 
in  his  pocket  he  examined  bangles  at  Osborn's  jewellery  shop, 
and  then  strolled  on  to  the  saloon  bar  for  the  purpose  of 
cautiously  sounding  Jessie  as  to  which  coloured  stones  she  most 
fancied.  He  had  seen  gold  chain  bangles  studded  with  tur- 
quoises, with  opals,  and  with  garnets;  and  he  did  not  know 
which  to  choose. 

Jessie  was  extraordinarily  quick  in  detecting  what  he  was 
about  when  he  began  to  sound  her.  But  she  made  Jack  wish 
that  he  had  completed  the  transaction  without  advice  or 
assistance.  She  startled  and  embarrassed  him  by  the  business- 
like way  in  which  she  took  up  the  matter. 

77 


78  HILL  RISE  , 

"Dear  old  Jack,  you  do  feel  you  owe  me  something,  then  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

He  had  the  cheque  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  he  felt  he  owed 
her  quite  ten  pounds. 

"Then  you  make  it  all  the  easier  for  me  to  say.  I  did 
hint  at  it — didn't  I?  Only  I  was  that  shy  I  couldn't  get  it 
out." 

"You  needn't  be  shy  with  me,"  said  Jack,  with  an  em- 
barrassed smile. 

"Then,  Jack,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  and  buy  some 
lovely,  costly  thing  which  I  might  never  have  the  chance 
of  wearing — to  show  it  off  properly — but  give  me  the  money 
instead." 

"Oh!     The  money  instead!" 

"Yes,  I  do  want  it  so  bad — and  it'll  come  in  the  nick  of 
time.  At  this  minnit  a  hundred  and  fifty  would  be  the  mak- 
ing of  me." 

"My  dear  Jessie !"  His  hand  had  gone  towards  his  breast 
pocket,  but  now  he  drew  it  back.  "Jessie — you  take  my 
breath  away.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid,  I — I  really  am  afraid " 

"I  suppose  you  meant  to  tick  it,  Jack — and  not  pay  ready. 
But  cant  you  manage  it  ?  I  want  it  that  bad — and  you're  the 
only  person  I  can  turn  to " 

"My  dear  Jessie!  One-fifty!  Frankly — you  have  opened 
your  pretty  mouth  so  much  wider  than  I  expected " 

"But  you  couldn't  get  what  you've  described  for  much 
less." 

"Couldn't  I  ?    That's  all  you  know." 

"A  hundred  ?    Jack,  you  did  mean  to  give  a  hundred  ?" 

"No,  my  dear  Jessie,,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  did." 

"Fifty?" 

"No;  not  half  fifty." 

Then,  squeezing  the  lemon-squasher  and  leaning  forward 
across  the  bar,  Jessie  urgently  begged  for  financial  support. 
She  and  a  friend  desired  to  start  a  shop. 

"What  shop?" 

"The  dressmaking.  Jack,  I'm  sick  of  this  work.  It  don't 
suit  me  and  I  don't  suit  it.  Certain  sure  there'll  be  an  un- 
pleasantness with  Emily.  She  has  a  down  on  me,  and  sooner 


HILL  RISE  79 

or  later  will  get  me  bundled  out.  Do,  do  be  a  dear  and  help 
me.  ...  If  you  haven't  got  it,  you  know  it  is  but  to  ask 
Sir  John." 

"On  my  honour,"  said  Jack,  "I  could  no  more  bite  my 
Guv'nor's  ear  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  than  I  could  fly." 

"Sell  one  of  your  lively  horses.  The  one  with  the  long  tail 
would  fetch  all  that." 

"Oh,  no,  he  wouldn't.  Besides,  the  horses  belong  to  the 
Guv'nor,  not  to  me." 

Jessie  turned  her  back,  leaned  her  elbow  against  the  bevelled 
mirror,  fetched  out  her  handkerchief,  and  wept  or  pretended 
to  weep. 

"My  dear  Jessie,  don't — don't.    Oh,  please  don't." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  sobbed  Miss  Barter.  "If — if  you  aren't 
good  for  even  fifty  pounds  at  a  pinch — I  think  you've  treated 
me  very  cruel." 

i 

Jessie's  friend,  with  whom  the  shop  was  to  be  started  in 
partnership,  was  a  Miss  Walsh.  At  first  Jessie  thought  noth- 
ing of  the  idea,  but  gradually  Miss  Walsh  had  inflamed  her 
with  an  enthusiasm  akin  to  her  own. 

"You  bring  in  a  hundred  and  fifty  capital,  and  it  shall  be 
share  and  share  alike.  You  can't  say  I'm  greedy — but  I  want 
you,  Jessie,  and  no  one  else.  We  were  always  pals — and  you 
say  you  hate  your  job  at  the  hotel.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  to  take  or 
leave,  but  it's  a  little  gold  mine  I'm  offering  you." 

"How  on  earth  could  I  get  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  ?" 

"That's  your  affair,  not  mine,"  said  Miss  Walsh.  "But 
I  know  I'd  get  it  quick  enough  if  I  had  your  advantages." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Jessie,  with  an  indignant 
flush. 

"Oh,  nothing  wrong,"  said  Miss  Walsh.  "Heaven  forbid. 
But  I  mean  you  could  get  it  out  of  the  gentlemen  that  comes 
to  the  bar — just  in  a  friendly  way.  What's  the  use  of  such 
opportunities  if  you  don't  use  'em?  All  the  money  of  the 
town,  so  to  speak,  is  walking  in  and  out  before  you  all  day 
long." 

"They'd  laugh  in  my  face." 

"Not  they.    You  could  say  you'd  pay  it  back.    Gentlemen 


SO  HILL  RISE 

will  always  give  a  helping  hand  to  a  girl  who  can  make  her- 
self agreeable — and  yet  respects  herself." 

Miss  Walsh  was  a  hard-featured,  black-haired  young  woman, 
aged  thirty-three,  in  the  mantle  department  at  Selkirk's.  For 
a  long  time  she  had  been  making  ready  for  the  campaign, 
preparing  lists  of  Selkirk's  customers  and  correspondents, 
obtaining  all  sorts  of  secret  intelligence  as  to  credits,  trade 
discounts,  etc.  She  was  on  an  excellent  footing  with  many 
representatives  of  the  wholesale  houses,  enjoyed  the  confi- 
dence and  esteem  of  two  of  Selkirk's  buyers, — had  walked  out 
with  one  important  member  of  the  staff  for  eighteen  months 
and  pumped  him  dry  of  information.  She  was  ready 
now. 

"I  don't  want  no  more  delay.  I  want  to  open  before  the 
summer's  over;"  and  with  growing  excitement  she  talked 
to  her  friend.  "I  want  you,  Jessie,  to  be  in  it.  I  need  you 
along  with  me — if  only  for  your  appearance.  I'm  getting 
passy — I  need  a  young  partner.  .  .  . 

"Fail !  Why  should  we  fail  ?  Given  the  proper  situation, 
we  shall  never  look  behind  us;"  and  she  described  all  her 
"views,  poured  out  her  trade  philosophy. 

"It's  tone  we'd  bank  on,  Jessie — the  chic  style.  Old  Sel- 
kirk's of  course  have  the  regular  maxims — small  profits  and 
quick  returns — quick  turn  over — and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Our 
policy  will  be  just  the  reverse.  Few  customers — for  we  can't 
hope  for  a  many — but  let  them  be  the  pick  of  the  basket,  and 
we'll  knock  sky-high  profits  out  of  'em.  .  .  . 

"Consider  those  Hill  Rise  girls  alone.  Suppose  you  catch 
one,  you  catch  whole  boiling.  I  count  them  at  twenty-five  for 
any  good  line.  A  new  scarf,  a  jabot,  or  a  feather  boa !  Well, 
you  sit  down  and  write  to  one  of  them — ask  for  a  visit  merely 
to  be  shown  something  new.  A  nouvoty!  I  can  hear  those 
girls  talking  now  while  I'm  telling  you — yes,  me  talking  back 
to  them.  'But  I  could  get  this  at  Selkirk's  for  a  quarter 
the  money!'  'Oh,  I  think  not — not  quite  the  same  thing. 
This  is  not  on  the  market.  It  is  a  line  made  to  the  order  of 
Cerisiers,  and  by  special  favour  we  have  obtained  the  over- 
plus. 

One  could  not  stop  Miss  Walsh  when  she  was  once  off. 


HILL  RISE  81 

If  one  spoke  a  word,  she  dodged  round  it,  and  rattled  on 
faster  than  before. 

"Don't  tell  me  they  wouldn't  snap  at  it!  That's  the  only 
way  I'd  bother  my  head  about  the  Hill  Eise  lot.  It's  Mrs. 
Bowling  and  such  as  her  as  would  ,put  down  the  big 
money.  .  .  . 

"Chic  style — I'd  just  have  Roles  et  Modes  over  the  shop. 
I  doubt  if  we  best  put  up  our  names  at  all — but  have  them 
on  the  billheads  and  letters.  I'd  have  lithographed  letters — 
thick  paper — and  coats  of  arms  all  across  the  top.  Not  the 
King's! — I  ain't  sure  but  what  they  drop  on  you  if  you  try 
that  game.  But  I'd  have  the  Czar's  and  the  Austrian  Em- 
peror's. You  don't  tell  me  the  Czar's  coming  over  to  inter- 
fere with  us." 

"Would  you  say  we  made  for  the  Czar?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything — let  'em  think  what  they 
pleased." 

Jessie  was  carried  away  at  last.  An  interview  with  Miss 
Walsh  was  like  having  your  fortune  told  by  a  gipsy.  You 
could  not  listen  to  Miss  Walsh  without  believing  that  she  was 
right  in  what  she  said :  that  it  would  all  come  true  in  the  end. 

Miss  Jessie  sat  in  her  place  behind  the  bar,  musing  on  the 
Walsh  plot.  Her  Mignonette  novel  was  neglected.  She  could 
not  read:  her  mind  wandered  always,  and  would  only  rest 
in  Miss  Walsh's  wonderful  phantom  shop.  The  weeks  were 
flying.  Miss  Walsh  would  not  wait  forever.  She  would  seek 
for  another  partner. 

"Mr.  Bowling !  Well,  you  are  a  stranger.  We  don't  often 
see  you,  Mr.  Bowling." 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Mr.  Bowling, 
the  architect,  had  come  to  the  saloon  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  a 
snack  of  late  luncheon.  It  was  long  past  the  regular  luncheon 
hour  when  townsmen  sat  on  high  stools  before  the  bar  and 
munched  hard-boiled  eggs,  sardines,  thin  slices  of  sausage,  and 
so  forth.  The  cane-seated  stools  had  been  removed  to  the 
far  end  of  the  saloon ;  the  hard-boiled  eggs  had  been  sent  back 
into  the  hotel  to  be  used  up  for  salads ;  the  French  bread  had 
all  returned  to  the  coffee-room.  Nevertheless,  Jessie  wel- 
comed the  late-comer ;  spoke  down  a  tube,  summoning  dainties ; 


82  HILL  RISE 

with  a  graceful  dive  came  under  the  bar  flap  to  bring  a 
stool  with  her  own  white  hands ;  laid  out  a  neatly  folded  nap- 
kin— in  a  word,  she  speedily  made  Mr.  Bowling  comfortable. 

"Too  bad/'  said  Mr.  Bowling,  seated  and  munching — "too 
bad  to  give  you  all  this  trouble." 

"No  trouble,  Mr.  Bowling.  Or  a  trouble  I  like  taking. 
Which  ought  I  to  say?"  and  Jessie  with  her  head  slightly 
on  one  side,  smiled  sweetly. 

"Oh,  come.  Oh,  ah.  What  a  nice  way  of  putting  it,"  and 
he  rolled  his  head,  and  laughed  as  much  as  he  could  while  his 
mouth  was  full. 

Jessie,  with  her  elbows  on  the  marble  slab  just  in  front 
of  the  napkin  and  plate,  with  her  fingers  twined  beneath  her 
chin,  regarded  Mr.  Bowling  fixedly. 

"Are  you  aware,  Mr.  Bowling,  what  nice  eyes  you  have?" 

"Oh,  come !    Oh,  ah !" 

"Very  nice  eyes.  Tell-tale  eyes,  I  call  them.  Just  a  pair  of 
tell-tales!" 

Then  Jessie  begged  permission  to  try  a  litle  experiment 
in  eye-reading.  Mr.  Bowling  was  to  think  of  the  past  or  of 
the  future,  and  Jessie  proposed  to  tell  him  which  he  was  think- 
ing of.  This  trick,  in  fact,  had  been  taught  her  the  night 
before  by  a  commercial  traveller,  who  said  the  pupil  of  the 
eye  contracted  for  the  past  and  expanded  for  the  future. 
The  bagman  had  experimented  successfully  with  big  Emily's 
honest  brown  eyes,  but  could  make  nothing  of  Jessie's  cold 
grey-blue  stare. 

"Mr.  Bowling,  you  are  thinking  of  the  past." 

"So  I  was.    Try  again." 

Mr.  Bowling  tittered  complacently.  He  was  enjoying  the 
test  as  much  as  his  lunch. 

"Oh,  the  past." 

"Yes.    He-he-he.    My  thought  was  in  the  past." 

"There!       What  did  I  say?     Tell-tale  eyes." 

"Well,  that's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  it;"  and  he  laughed 
gaily. 

"Go  on  with  your  lunch.    Then  you  shall  have  a  cig." 

Just  then  the  telephone  bell  behind  the  bar  rang  sharp 
and  clear.  Mr.  Bowling  started  violently. 


HILL  RISE  83 

"What's  that?    Any  one  asking  for  me?" 

Jessie,  at  the  instrument,  shook  her  head.  It  was  only 
Mr.  Drake,  up  the  town,  inquiring  about  the  lemons.  Mr. 
Dowling,  from  force  of  habit,  had  wondered  if  it  could  be  a 
message  from  his  home.  Mrs.  Dowling  could  not  possibly 
know  that  he  was  nourishing  himself  at  the  White  Hart,  and 
yet,  when  the  bell  rang,  he  had  instinctively  thought  of  his 
good,  kind  wife. 

"Mr.  Dowling,"  said  Jessie,  as  presently  she  lit  the  visitor's 
cigarette  for  him,  "you  know  everything.  Suppose  one  was 
to  go  to  a  money-lender  to  borrow  fifty  pounds — I  suppose 
he'd  charge  one  something  frightful." 

"Sixty  per  cent." 

"But  if  one  could  get  a  hundred  percentage  for  the  money 
it  might  be  worth  doing." 

"Oh,  never.    Money-lenders  are  the  very  devil." 

"I  suppose  lawyers  and  bankers  would  be  the  proper  peo- 
ple to  go  to  ?" 

"Yes;  if  the  security  was  all  right." 

"Mr.  Dowling,  you're  a  rich  man — suppose  I  was  to  offer 
you  a  sort  of  investment  that  was  also  a  great  kindness." 

"What  sort  of  investment?" 

"Fifty  pounds." 

"But  I  meant  what  in?" 

"A  shop." 

"What  shop?" 

"The  dressmaking." 

The  weeks  flew  by.  Miss  Walsh  was  impatient  to  throw 
off  the  yoke  and  be  her  own  master.  She  was  looking  about  her 
for  premises ;  there  was  a  first  floor  and  rooms  above  in  Bridge 
Street  that  might  do.  She  wanted  Miss  Barter  and  no  one 
else.  In  Miss  Barter  she  would  have  the  young,  attractive,  ele- 
gant shoplady  that  she  had  set  her  heart  on.  But  one  must 
face  stern  facts.  There  are  always  as  good  fish  in  the 
sea,  etc. 

"If,"  said  Jessie,  "I  say  I'll  bring  in  a  hundred,  will  you 
let  me  off  the  other  fifty?" 

"No." 


84  HILL  RISE 

"Will  you  wait  for  it  until  after  we've  started?" 

"No;  I  can't  do  that.  When  the  chance  comes,  I  must 
grab  it.  I  believe  I  could  get  more  than  I'm  asking  you  from 
the  wholesale  houses,  but  in  that  case  I  should  be  all  alone." 

Then  one  Sunday  morning  Miss  Walsh,  wild  with  excite- 
ment, came  bustling  to  Jessie. 

"Now's  our  chance!  Young  French,  the  hatter,  has  gone 
phut.  His  shop's  free — the  very  place  for  us.  It's  now  or 
never,  Jessie." 

Monday  was  a  lodge  evening  at  the  White  Hart ;  and  Jessie 
was  brooding  over  Miss  Walsh's  ultimatum,  when  the  sound 
of  many  footsteps  roused  her  from  deep  thought  to  attend  to 
her  duties. 

"Wake  up,"  said  stout  Emily  at  the  other  end  of  the  bar. 
"Look  alive;  here  they  come." 

It  was  a  company  of  the  Freemasons — at  least  half  the 
lodge — passing  from  their  heavy  labours  upstairs  to  some  light 
refreshment  down  below.  In  a  minute  the  whole  saloon  was 
full  of  the  brethren.  Glasses  clinked  and  tinkled;  corks 
popped  gaily,  as  Emily,  with  practised  hand,  opened  the 
soda-water  bottles,  while  Jessie,  less  skilled,  used  the  cork- 
extracting  machine;  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  began  to  hover. 
"Here's  to  you,  Brother  Granger."  Chin-chin!  "After  you 
with  that  match."  "Your  health,  Brother  Crunden."  For  a 
little  while  the  two  barmaids  were  kept  hard  at  work. 

Soon,  however,  orders  slackened;  about  Emily  everybody 
was  served,  and  she  herself  was  engaged  in  pleasant  conversa- 
tion. Old  Crunden  was  standing  at  Jessie's  end  of  the  bar, 
and  presently  it  fell  upon  him  to  take  up  one  of  the  senior 
barmaid's  duties  and  act  as  chaperon  for  the  junior.  Gruffly 
and  sternly  he  reproved  a  brother  for  his  loose  tongue. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  tell  a  tale  of  that 
kind  before  a  defenceless  girl." 

No  doubt,  as  a  father,  he  thought  of  his  own  girl.  To 
subject  maidenly  innocence  to  brutal  outrage — the  thought 
of  it  made  his  blood  boil. 

"Didn't  know  she  was  listening,"  said  the  offender  apolo- 
getically. 

Jessie,  stooping  over  the  extracting-machine,  composed  her 


HILL  RISE  85 

face  and  tried  to  look  as  if  she  had  not  caught  the  point  of 
the  anecdote. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  saloon  had  closed  and  Masons, 
after  further  mysteries  upstairs,  were  filing  out  into  the 
street  by  the  hotel  door,  Jessie,  in  her  black  straw  hat  and 
neat  jacket,  timidly  approached  old  Crunden,  walked  by  his 
side,  and  ventured  to  address  him. 

"Mr.  Crunden — sir.  Forgive  me,  but — but  I  want  to  thank 
you.  I  was  touched  by  your  chivalry — in  protecting  me  from 
insult/' 

Mr.  Crunden  grunted.  Perhaps  he  had  no  very  high  opin- 
ion of  Miss  Barter,  although  with  chivalry  he  had  protected 
her.  But,  perhaps  as  a  father  again  thinking  of  his  own  girl, 
he  suffered  Miss  Barter  to  talk  to  him. 

"So  touched,  Mr.  Crunden,  that  I  do  wish  to  tell  you " 

And  Jessie  told  him  how  greatly  self-respecting  barmaids 
should  be  pitied.  Every  day  in  a  nice  barmaid's  life  was  a 
painful  ordeal.  She  herself  hated  the  life,  and  she  wanted  to 
get  clear  of  it.  One's  daily  bread  can  be  too  dearly  bought. 
She  wanted  to  work  for  her  living,  and  earn  money  in  a  mod- 
est little  shop.  She  and  another  nice  girl  could  set  up  shop 
to-morrow  if  only  they  could  borrow  the  capital.  "But,  alas ! 
that  seems  impossible." 

"What  shop  could  you  set  up?" 

"The  dressmaking." 

"And  how  much  capital  would  you  want  ?" 

"Fifty  pounds,"  said  Jessie  briskly. 

"Fifty  pounds,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  "is  sooner  spent  than 
earned." 

Painters  and  decorators  were  busy  beneath  Mr.  Bowling's 
office  in  the  vacant  shop  lately  occupied  by  Mr.  French's  hats, 
now  removed  to  High  Street  and  there  being  sold  "In  liquida- 
tion" as  "astounding  bargains"  and  "rare  opportunities." 
With  white  paint,  yellow  ochre  blinds,  golden  tassels,  with 
'everything  in  best  chic  style,  Robes  et  Modes  was  quietly  and 
unostentatiously  thrown  open  to  the  high-class  public;  and 
Jessie  was  gone  from  her  place  behind  the  saloon  bar. 

There  was  no  vulgar  blowing  of  trumpets  such  as  that  which 


86  HILL  RISE 

had  preluded  arrogant  Mr.  French's  brief  occupation  of  these 
desirable  premises.  Yet  the  opening  of  Robes  et  Modes  was 
not  unchronicled.  The  local  press  considered  it  a  matter  of 
general  interest.  Mr.  Hope  gave  the  new  shop  a  descriptive 
send-off  in  the  Medford  Advertiser,  and  there  were  also  a 
few  words  about  it  under  the  heading  On-dits  in  Mees's 
Weekly  Bulletin. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

BUT  if  Medford,  in  the  dearth  of  real  news,  could  take  inter- 
est in  so  small  a  matter  as  the  opening  of  a  dressmaker's  shop, 
it  soon  had  news  on  the  very  grandest  scale — something  to 
startle  it,  to  shake  it,  to  drive  away  its  midsummer  drowsi- 
ness. Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  this 
was  the  most  astounding  piece  of  news.  Two  months  had 
passed  since  the  lamented  death  of  the  Dowager  Countess 
of  Haddenham,  when  the  thunderbolt  came  from  a  clear  sky. 

Hill  Kise  was  for  sale ! 

Hill  Eise,  houses  and  land,  was  to  be  sold  as  a  building 
estate.  One  morning  white  bills  were  up,  here  and  there, 
in  conspicuous  positions — on  the  gate  of  the  Tennis  Club,  on 
garden  walls,  at  the  White  Hart  stables.  "Preliminary  an- 
nouncement," said  the  bills.  "Sale  by  auction  on  the  twenty- 
second  of  July.  Further  particulars  shortly."  To  citizens 
gathered  and  whispering  awfully,  the  bills  seemed  like  a 
declaration  of  war,  like  a  proclamation  of  pains  and  penalties, 
like  the  manifesto  of  a  revolutionary  government — like  what 
not  appalling  and  inexplicable.  The  Vicar  of  St.  Barnabas 
at  once  spoke  of  the  bills  as  "the  writing  on  the  wall." 

Day  after  day  the  excitement  was  intense.  Hill  Eise,  the 
time-honoured  home  of  fashion  and  aristocracy,  was  in  the 
market.  The  stately  peace  of  the  Hill  was  to  be  broken  by 
the  rough  assault  of  the  speculative  builder.  People  could 
talk  or  think  of  nothing  else. 

Sir  John  Vincent  of  Hill  House  talked  about  it  without 
cessation.  His  energy  and  restlessness  were  wonderful.  He 
wrote  at  once  to  Mr.  Abinger,  asking :  Can  this  thing  be  true  ? 
Mr.  A.  mournfully  replied  that  he  feared  it  was  too  true. 
But  he  knew  nothing  now  for  certain.  He  had  been  super- 
seded— after  thirty-one  years'  faithful  management  of  the 

87 


88  HILL  RISE 

estate.  Mr.  A.  thought  if  the  new  authorities  could  dismiss 
him,  they  could  do  anything.  Then  Sir  John  wrote  to  Messrs. 
Firmin  &  Firmin,  demanding  an  explicit  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion :  Is  it  a  fact  that  Hill  Rise  will  be  sold  ?  It  was  a  fact, 
said  Messrs.  Firmin,  that  Hill  Rise  would  be  offered  for 
sale.  They  could  not,  of  course,  promise  that  it  would  be 
sold. 

Then  Sir  John  called  upon  all  the  tenants  of  Hill  Rise. 
Untiringly  he  passed  from  house  to  house,  working  up  agita- 
tion and  horror.  Meetings  must  be  convened — a  series  of 
meetings  in  which  gentry  and  tradesmen  must  join  hands. 
The  corporation  must  assist;  Government  must  be  petitioned 
to  come  to  Medford's  aid;  heaven  and  earth  must  be  moved 
to  prevent  the  desecration  and  ruin  of  Hill  Rise.  Sir  John's 
eloquence  evoked  promises  of  staunch  support.  Hill  Rise 
welcomed  such  a  leader;  all  would  fight  under  his  banner. 
Admiral  Lardner,  of  No.  11,  was  unfortunately  away  in 
Switzerland.  But  Colonel  Beaumont,  of  No.  13,  was  here, 
bursting  with  indignation.  Mr.  Garrett,  of  No.  5,  would  use 
all  his  diplomatic  skill;  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Granville,  and  the 
Misses  Vigor  would  write  circulars,  get  up  a  bazaar,  do  any- 
thing Sir  John  told  them  to  do. 

"Beaumont,"  said  Sir  John,  "it  will  be  the  very  deuce  if 
we  can't  put  a  stop  to  it.  Rows  of  confounded  houses  up 
to  the  garden  walls !  The  end  of  the  Tennis  Club,  the  end 
of  privacy,  the  end  of  everything!" 

"It  must  be  stopped,"  said  Colonel  Beaumont.  "Call  a 
meeting  without  an  hour's  delay." 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  John,  "we  can't  act  too  quickly.  This 
morning  I  saw  a  fellow  measuring  all  along  the  meadow  fence 
— one  of  those  city-looking  fellows — fellow  in  a  white  hat  and 
a  red  tie — just  the  sort  of  fellow  to  buy  the  estate.  I  believe 
that  fellow  meant  business." 

Sir  John,  after  explaining  to  the  Hill  the  nature  of  the 
threatened  disaster,  hurried  off  to  explain  it  to  the  town. 
He  spent  his  days  in  the  town,  carefully  explaining.  He 
talked  to  every  prominent  citizen  he  met;  he  allowed  no 
member  of  the  corporation  to  pass  by  him;  he  talked  to 
every  one  who  would  listen — because  in  a  big  public  move- 


HILL  RISE  89 

merit  you  cannot  have  too  many  people  on  your  side,  and  no 
one,  however  insignificant,  should  be  set  down  as  without 
influence. 

Mr.  Hope,  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Medford  Advertiser, 
immediately  took  Sir  John's  view.  The  most  important  organ 
of  public  opinion — the  only  organ,  as  Mr.  Hope  always  de- 
clared— was,  therefore,  on  the  right  side  from  the  first. 
Mr.  Hope,  taking  up  Sir  John's  task,  explained  the  matter, 
as  he  said,  urbi  et  orbi.  Mr.  Hope,  in  consecutive  numbers, 
delivered  himself  of  some  grandly  dispassionate  leading  arti- 
cles that  were  full  of  balanced  sentences,  well-reasoned  argu- 
ment, split  infinitives,  and  foreign  language. 

"To  fully  appreciate  the  havoc  on  the  Hill,  the  loss  in  the 
town,  one  must  visualise  the  result  as  a  fait  accompli.  Delenda 
est  Carthago.  .  .  .  The  Hill  will  be  gone,  the  best  residential 
neighbourhood  wiped  out;  the  supporters  of  our  trade  and 
the  ornaments  of  our  society  will  be  driven  away  to  enrich 
and  to  adorn  some  rival  town."  The  Medford  Corporation, 
said  Mr.  Hope,  finally  and  emphatically  in  each  article — but 
in  different  words,  of  course — should  itself  purchase  the  es- 
tate and  thus  avert  its  doom.  Some  of  the  meadows  should 
be  converted  into  a  public  park  and  pleasure  garden;  the 
houses,  the  club  grounds,  and  all  the  existing  amenities  should 
be  preserved  in  statu  quo. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  "if  you  had  husbanded  your  re- 
sources, you  might  perhaps  think  of  giving  the  town  another 
recreation  ground — if  you'd  kept  your  money  and  not  built 
a  Town  Hall." 

This  was  to  Councillor  Holland,  who,  with  Mr.  Bowling  and 
Mr.  Eaton,  after  a  walk  up  and  down  Hill  Eise,  had  looked  in 
at  King's  Cottage. 

"It's  never  any  use,  Mr.  Crunden,  crying  over  spilt  milk," 
said  Mr.  Eaton. 

"I  cried  before  they  spilt  it,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  shortly. 

Mr.  Eaton  was  by  nature  a  sharp-nosed,  sandy  little  man, 
and  by  profession  a  solicitor.  He  was  newly  established  and 
very  pushing.  By  unwavering  push  he  had  created  a  busi- 
ness; he  was  liked  by  the  tradesmen;  he  hoped  soon  to  enter 
municipal  life,  and  he  affected  the  society  of  aldermen  and 


90  HILL  RISE 

councillors,  with  whom  he  curried  favour.  He  was  perhaps 
too  fond  of  a  joke  to  please  everybody. 

"Anyways,"  said  Mr.  Holland,  "all  that's  ancient  history. 
And  you  can't  blame  me,  Mr.  Crunden.  I  wasn't  on  the 
Council  in  those  times." 

"No,  but  you're  on  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  currying 
favour,  "and  a  jolly  good  man  for  the  place." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Eaton.  Well,  Mr.  Crunden,  I  don't  mind 
saying  I,  for  one,  am  doubtful  if  we  can  go  so  far  as  some 
would  have  us — about  this  park  and  the  rest  of  it." 

And  then  Councillor  Holland  told  them  that,  in  his  opin- 
ion, "all  this  Hill  Eise  excitement"  was  already  abating.  "The 
affair"  had  been  discussed  at  the  Council  last  night,  and  the 
feeling  was  for  moderation,  no  blind  launching  out,  no  heroic 
measures. 

"I  don't  wish  to  see  the  old  families  interfered  with,"  said 
Mr.  Holland.  "I've  always  held  that  the  upper  gentry  are 
the  backbone  of  Medford — not  so  much  for  their  own  cus- 
tom, but  for  the  custom  they  foster  in  others." 

"They  haven't  begun  to  foster  me,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  grin- 
ning facetiously,  "but  I  hope  they  will  some  day." 

"Between  ourselves,"  said  Mr.  Holland,  in  a  sententious 
and  judicial  manner,  "a  good  deal  of  'umbug  'as  been  talked 
about  it." 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  else  talked,"  said  old  Crunden. 

"A  good  deal  of  'umbug ;"  and  Mr.  Holland  nodded  his  head 
gravely.  "A  few  'ouses  more  or  less  is  not  to  drive  sensible 
people  out  of  the  town.  I  call  that  talk  so  much  'umbug.  And 
as  a  tradesman  with  all  his  work  cut  out  to  keep  his  head 
above  water  in  these  days  of  unfair  competition  of  the  London 
stores  and  free  deliveries,  I  say  I  don't  want  to  further 
'andicap  myself — no,  nor  'andicap  my  friends — by  throwing 
fresh  burdens  on  the  rates." 

"Ah,"  said  Hedgehog  Crunden,  with  an  approving  grunt. 
"Better  late  than  never.  In  the  end  you'll  all  come  round  to 
what  I  preached  ten  year  ago." 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Holland,  "keep  the  rates  within 
reason;  that's  my  motto.  Not,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "on 
account  of  such  rate-payers  as  you,  Mr.  Crunden,  but  'umble 


HILL  RISE  91 

folk  like  myself  as  do  feel  the  burden.  It  can't  matter  to  you 
either  way.  You're  a  rich  man." 

"Gammon!"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  not  perhaps  really  ill- 
pleased  by  this  accusation. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Eaton.  "Fact,  Mr.  Crunden  is  very  warm; 
red-hot." 

It  was  a  town  custom  to  pay  these  compliments.  Medford 
citizens  enjoyed  being  amiably  teased  about  their  richness. 
And  now  the  three  visitors  gave  their  host  a  thorough  com- 
plimentary teasing. 

"You  don't  make  a  display,  Mr.  Crunden.  You  sit  on  it, 
comfortable  and  secure." 

"He  lays  on  it,"  said  Mr.  Holland;  "stretches  himself  out 
at  full  length  on  it." 

"We  know,"  said  Dowling  roguishly :  "you  keep  your  money 
liquid — out  of  sight." 

"But  it's  there  all  the  time,"  said  Mr.  Eaton.  "The  town 
knows  it.  That's  why  every  one  respects  you,  and  are  glad  to 
show  their  respect." 

"Show  their  respect !"  said  Crunden.  "No  one  touches  his 
hat  to  me — not  a  man  in  the  town." 

"Don't  they?"  said  Mr.  Eaton.  "I've  seen  the  bank  man- 
ager bowing  to  you  before  all  the  bank  clerks.  He  couldn't 
bow  lower  to  Sir  John  himself." 

"He  knows,"  said  Mr.  Holland;  "what  he'^  got  safe  in  his 
cellars — all  that  liquid  what  Mr.  Crunden  'as  put  by." 

"I've  put  by  enough  for  myself,"  said  Crunden,  "and 
enough  for  my  girl.  Let  it  be  at  that." 

"Just  so.    Miss  Crunden  may  look  high." 

"She  can't  look  too  high,"  said  Mr.  Dowling  gallantly. 

"Lucky  man  as  wins  her." 

"So  he  will  be,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  with  great  gallantry. 
"And  apart  from  being  an  heiress." 

"Oh,  don't  part  her  from  the  cash,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  be- 
ginning to  be  very  jocose. 

"If  I  was  unmarried,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  "I'd  be  always  on 
your  doorstep,  Mr.  Crunden." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  with  a  touch  of  surliness,  "but 
you  are  married." 


92  HILL  RISE 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Holland,  "he  is  married." 

"Very  much  married,"  said  Mr.  Eaton. 

But  now  Mr.  Eaton  was  being  altogether  too  funny.  Mr. 
Bowling  showed  spirit;  he  drew  himself  to  his  full  height, 
and  spoke  sharply,  and  yet  with  dignity. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Eaton  ?" 

"Oh,  only  a  joke." 

"It  is  not  a  joking  matter,  sir." 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Mr.  Eaton.    "I'm  sorry  to  hear  that." 

Then  Mr.  Dowling  was  very  angry.  He  told  Mr.  Eaton 
that  he  was — among  other  things — an  impertinent  whipper- 
snapper. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mr.  Crunden.    "Come,  gentlemen !" 

"Mr.  Eaton,"  said  Councillor  Holland,  determined  to  cut 
himself  free  of  any  part  in  the  offending  jest,  "you  ought 
to  apologise.  You  brought  it  on  yourself.  You've  put  your- 
self in  the  wrong." 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Eaton;  "I  do  apologise.  I  meant  no 
harm,  Mr.  Dowling.  .  .  .  And  now  I  think  you  might 
withdraw  some  of  your  late  remarks." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  with  really  a  fine  ges- 
ture of  his  open  hand.  "Since  Mr.  Eaton  has  expressed  regret, 
I  can  say  no  more." 

But  he  withdrew  nothing  of  what  he  had  said  already. 
With  another  wave  of  the  hand,  as  though  to  declare  the  inci- 
dent closed,  he  turned  and  moved  to  the  window.  He  had 
shown  much  spirit  and  dignity.  Old  Crunden  thought  the 
better  of  him  for  being  loyal  to  his  domestic  hearth  and  refus- 
ing to  tolerate  slighting  allusions  to  the  lady  who  occupied 
such  a  large  part  of  the  hearth. 

"Stay  a  minute,  Mr.  Dowling,"  he  said,  when  the  two  other 
guests  were  going.  "Stop  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  he  added 
hospitably,  after  he  had  closed  the  front  door  upon  Messrs. 
Holland  and  Eaton. 

"Well ;  yes— thank  you." 

Mr.  Dowling,  sitting  in  the  pleasant  window  seat,  soon 
threw  off  all  dignity,  and  chatted  in  calm  and  comfort. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "there's  a  bit  of  secret  history  from 
the  lodge.  You'll  be  there  to  see  Brown  installed  ?" 


HILL  RISE  93 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know,  some  of  the  brethren  at  the  last  moment 
wanted  to  pass  him  over — and  put  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  in  the 
chair  again." 

"I  can  quite  believe  it — and  I  know  why." 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  "Brown  is  a  hard-working 
man  and  lives  on  low  ground,  and  because  Vincent  is  an  idle 
dog  and  lives  on  the  Hill.  They're  all  the  same,  Masons  or 
not — they're  like  people  under  a  spell." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that.  No,  Brother  Vincent  has  always 
been  friendly  and  affable.  See  how  jolly  he  is  over  a  game 
of  bowls." 

"I've  no  quarrel  with  young  Vincent.  ...  He  used,"  said 
Crunden,  thoughtfully  and  slowly,  "to  come  here  as  a  lad — 
often — with  my  son.  He  has  talked  to  me — more  than  once — 
about— Dick." 

"Yes,  he  spoke  to  me  about  him  only  the  other  day." 

"I've  no  quarrel  with  Vincent,"  said  Mr.  Crunden.  "If  he 
wastes  himself  on  the  wenches — I  don't  mind.  It's  not  my 
business.  He's  civil  enough — the  best  of  the  bunch." 

"And,  idle  or  not,  he  does  his  Masonic  work  well." 

"Yes,"  said  Crunden,  rather  grudingly,  "yes,  there's  some- 
thing in  Vincent,  I  believe;  but  it'll  never  come  out.  Sir 
John'll  take  care  of  that." 

"But,  you  know,  there's  great  shrewdness  in  Sir  John.  He 
was  talking  to  me  this  morning " 

"Oh,  he  can  talk  all  right." 

"He  made  me,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  "really  sorry  for  him." 

"What  about?" 

"All  this  Hill  Rise  upset — bringing  trouble  and  annoyance 
on  him." 

"What  does  it  matter  to  Sir  John?" 

"He  stands  the  chance  of  seeing  Hill  House  spoilt  if  they 
come  building  all  about  it." 

"He  has  ten  acres  round  the  house." 

"But  he'll  lose  the  outlook  into  the  meadows.  Talking  it 
over — he  was  with  me  half  an  hour  and  more — I  could  see 
he  was  quite  alive  to  the  business  side  of  it.  This  sale  may 


94  HILL  RISE 

knock  a  lot  of  value  off  his  property  as  a  residential  place. 
He  made  no  secret  of  that." 

"Oh,  then  he  has  his  own  axe  to  grind.  I  thought  all  the 
fuss  he's  kicking  up  was  mere  busybodying." 

Then  Mrs.  Price  brought  in  the  tea  things. 

"Tell  Lizzie  to  come  down  to  tea." 

"Miss  Lizzie/'  said  Mrs.  Price,  "asks  you  to  excuse  her. 
She  don't  want  any  tea.  She  has  the  headache  still,  and 
feels  better  keeping  quiet  in  her  room." 

"My  girl,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  as  he  poured  out  the  tea, 
"Liz  has  been  a  bit  out  of  sorts  lately.  You  don't  know  of 
any  better  doctor  than  Dr.  Blake,  do  you  ?" 

"Dr.  Blake's  reputation  is  very  high,"  said  Mr.  Dowling. 
"He  attends  my  wife;  and  every  one  on  the  Hill  believes  in 
him." 

"Ah !  I  think  I  shall  have  to  call  him  in  for  Lizzie.  But 
the  worst  of  Dr.  Blake  is  this :  if  you  ask  him  to  come  once, 
he  comes  another  dozen  times  without  asking." 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

THE  widespread  excitement  had  abated.  The  town  as  a 
whole  had  drowsily  folded  its  hands,  was  ready  to  fall  asleep 
again.  Mr.  Hope,  with  all  the  weight  and  power  of  the 
Advertiser  at  his  command,  could  not  stir  the  somnolent 
Corporation.  There  had  even  been  objectionable,  inimical 
On-dits  in  Mees's  Bulletin:  "On  dit  that  certain  parties  are 
raising  a  storm  in  a  teacup" ;  "On  dit  that  Medf ord  numbers 
eighteen  thousand  inhabitants,  and  that  the  population  of 
Hill  Eise  is  only  one  hundred  and  fifty-three  persons  all  told" ; 
and  so  on. 

Mr.  Hope  used  always  to  say  that  the  Advertiser  was  the 
sole  newspaper  published  in  Medf  ord.  But  Mees,  the  stationer 
and  librarian,  who  was  also  a  printer,  issued  a  horrid  little 
sheet  which  he  called  "Mees's  Weekly  Bulletin."  It  con- 
tained a  list  of  "Books  added  to  the  Library,"  three  pages 
of  local  advertisements,  some  brief  cuttings  from  London 
periodicals,  and  half  to  two-thirds  of  a  column  of  original 
matter  entitled  On-dits.  Old  Mees,  whenever  in  talk  with  a 
customer  he  had  heard  rumour  of  a  marriage,  a  carriage  acci- 
dent, an  outbreak  of  measles,  etc.,  would  say  to  his  spectacled 
son,  "We  might  make  an  On-dit  of  that";  and  young  Mees, 
blinking  behind  his  spectacles,  accepted  such  material  or 
rejected  it  in  accordance  with  his  own  highly-trained  editorial 
judgment.  Mr.  Hope  never  would  admit  that  this  four-page 
Bulletin  was  a  rival.  "It  is,"  he  said,  "a  trade  circular,  not 
a  newspaper.  The  On-dits  are  neither  journalism  nor  litera- 
ture. They  are  beneath  contempt." 

Yet  sometimes,  as  now,  young  Mees's  On-dits  were  daring, 
very  daring.  Certainly,  as  Mr.  Hope  confessed,  Mees  would 
not  have  ventured  to  take  such  a  tone  about  the  great  sale, 
if  the  public  had  not  manifested  so  much  apathy. 

There  was  apathy  in  Hill  Eise  itself.  The  younger  genera- 

95 


96  HILL  RISE 

tion  refused  to  believe  that  the  end  of  the  world  was  com- 
ing. The  young  men  lounged  about  as  contentedly  as  ever. 
The  girls  still  played  tennis  and  croquet,  and  carried  all 
their  money  to  Selkirk's — or,  rather,  nearly  all  their  money, 
but  not  quite  all.  Some  of  it  found  its  way  to  Robes  et 
Modes.  Miss  Walsh  had  recently  sold  twenty-one  leaf-green 
tulle  ruffles — a  specialite — the  overplus  of  a  new  line  sent 
down  from  a  certain  smart  London  house.  Wearing  these 
special  ruffles,  the  Hill  Eise  young  ladies  felt  gay  of  heart,  easy 
in  their  minds,  and  scarcely  listened  when  parents  discussed 
the  coming  stroke  of  doom. 

The  fuller  sale  bills  were  now  up  all  over  the  town.  Mr. 
Crunden,  having  met  the  bill-sticker,  asked  for  one  of  the 
white  sheets,  carried  it  home,  and  with  a  drawing  pin  fixed  it 
to  the  wall  of  his  big  room  between  the  two  engravings  in 
the  place  where  such  documents  always  hung  years  ago. 

Coming  back  early  one  afternoon,  he  found  Mrs.  Price  as  if 
spellbound  before  the  new  bill. 

"Haven't  you  read  that  yet?"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  with 
a  grunt.  "Or  are  you  learning  it  by  rote  ?"  And  he  grunted 
again  as  he  took  off  his  square  hat  and  brought  out  a  bandana 
handkerchief  to  mop  his  forehead. 

It  was  an  oppressive,  airless  day,  very  hot  in  the  sun,  and 
Mr.  Crunden  had  obviously  returned  in  rather  a  bad  temper. 
Mrs.  Price  smiled,  and  spoke  soothingly. 

"You've  had  your  walk,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Any  news?" 

"No." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  in  friendly,  conciliatory  tones, 
"there's  one  thing  with  you — you're  regular  as  clockwork. 
One  can  always  tell  your  movements.  Down  by  the  yard,  over 
the  bridge,  and  up  the  town — as  usual.  .  .  .  What  did  you 
see  to-day?" 

"A  lot  of  fools,  as  usual."  And  with  a  loud  grunt,  the 
master  went  to  his  bureau  and  sat  down.  "Fools!  .  .  .  All 
the  town  chattering  about  the  sale." 

"Well,  it  is  a  bombshell  for  the  gentry;"  and  Mrs.  Price 
turned  once  more  to  the  hill.  "I  can't  get  over  it.  I  must 


HILL  RISE  97 

read  it  every  time  I  come  in."  And  she  laughed  good- 
humouredly.  "  'At  the  Mart,  London !  On  July  the  twenty- 
second,  at  3  P.M.  precisely!  By  order  of  the  Exe-cu-tors. 
Forty  acres  Freehold !  Twenty  noble  residences '  " 

"One  of  the  noble  residents — Colonel  Beaumont — came 
across  the  road  and  talked  to  me — saw  me  all  of  a  sudden. 
'Oh,  Mr.  Crunden,'  says  he,  'what  can  be  done  to  avert  this 
catastrophe  ?'  'What's  that,  sir  ?'  'The  ruin  of  the  town,  Mr. 
Crunden.  If  Hill  Else  meadows  are  built  over,  we  shall  all 
leave  in  a  body.  Oh,  I  do  think  old  Lady  Haddenham  has 
treated  us  very  bad/  'How  so,  sir?'  'Why,  in  putting  the 
property  up  for  sale  to  the  highest  bidder  without  any  warn- 
ing/" 

"What  did  you  say  to  the  Colonel?" 

"I  said :  'Well,  sir,  as  to  that,  selling  to  the  highest  bidder 
is  always  done.  It'd  be  a  funny  thing  to  sell  to  the  lowest 
bidder.  And  as  to  Lady  Haddenham,  she's  dead,  as  I  under- 
stand. So  we  oughtn't  to  blame  her  for  what's  done  when 
she's  in  her  coffin.' ';  And  then  Mr.  Crunden  gave  an  imita- 
tion of  voice  and  gestures,  which,  if  at  all  successful,  proved 
that  Colonel  Beaumont  was  a  foolish,  fussy,  finnicking  sort 
of  person :  "  'Might  have  provided  for  the  contingency,  Mr. 
Crunden.  .  .  .  Might  have  provided  for  the  contingency.' " 

"What  did  you  say  to  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Price.  She  was 
genuinely  interested  and  amused. 

"I  told  him  the  best  way  to  save  their  aristocratic  neigh- 
bourhood was  for  them  to  club  together  and  buy  the  prop- 
erty;" and  Mr.  Crunden  gave  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh. 
"They  won't  do  that;  they  haven't  the  money  in  all  the 
twenty  noble  residences.  If  pride  could  buy  it,  they  would." 

"To  be  sure.    They  are  proud." 

"Yes.  If  s  grand,  such  pride  as  theirs — if  you  come  to 
think  of  it.  Proud  because  they  aren't  in  trade — because 
they  are  colonels  who  never  fought  a  battle ;  admirals  who  won 
their  rank  after  they'd  left  the  service ;  pensioners  who  never 
did  an  honest  day's  work.  I'll  tell  you  something.  I've 
grown  to  hate  them  and  their  pride — with  their  proud,  tricked- 
out  daughters — too  proud  to  play  a  game  of  ball  with  my 
girl." 


98  HILL  RISE 

"That  was  a  shame  indeed — refusing  of  Miss  Lizzie  for  the 
Club." 

"I  hate  their  proud,  swaggering  sons,  too!  Loafers! — 
that's  what  they  are.  Idle,  loafing,  swaggering  fools — every 
one  of  them." 

"So  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  Price.  "All  except  young  Mr. 
Vincent.  He's  different.  He  was  always  pleasant  and  kind 
when  he  come  here  in  the  old  days — and  he  do  look  so  nice  on 
his  horse.  It's  a  pleasure  for  to  watch  him  ride  hy.  Leave 
Mr.  Jack  out,  and  I'm  all  with  you." 

"I  saw  one  of  them  to-day — that  Lardner — the  Admiral's 
son,  coming  out  of  the  Station,  wiping  his  fat  chops ;"  and  Mr. 
Crunden  turned  again  to  the  desk  on  the  bureau.  "I  hate 
that  fellow  most  of  all.  It  was  copying  him  and  his  kind 
that  sent  my  lad  to  the  devil." 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Price,  sadly  and  solemnly. 

"When  did  these  letters  come?" 

"Afternoon  post.    When  you'd  gone  out — not  before." 

"All  right.     Where's  Lizzie?" 

"In    the    garden,    I    think.     She    was    here    just    now. 
And    Mrs.    Price    was    about    to    go    back   to    her    kitchen 
when  she  remembered  that  she  had  an  important  question 
to  ask.     "Oh !     Is  the  Freemasons'  dinner  to-morrow  or  day 
after?" 

"Day  after." 

"Because  I  want  to  air  your  dress  clothes.  And  will  you 
want  'em  for  that  other  affair — the  Hospital  reception — 
on  the  tenth?" 

"I  don't  know."  Mr.  Crunden  looked  round  in  grave  doubt. 
"I  must  ask  Lizzie.  I  don't  know.  You  see,  there's  no  ques- 
tion about  day  after  to-morrow.  It's  our  installation  ban- 
quet. Always  dress  clothes  for  that.  We  shall  be  busy  in 
Lodge  till  six  o'clock — putting  the  new  master  in  the  chair, 
appointing  his  officers,  raising  two  fellow-craft  to  the  third 
degree " 

"Oh,  dear ;  oh,  dear !    You  mustn't  tell  me  that." 

"Why  not?" 

Mrs.  Price,  on  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen  passage,  raised 
a  crooked  finger  and  wagged  her  head  in  sly  pleasantry.  "You 


HILL  RISE  99 

mustn't,"  she  said,  "because  I  haven't  been  in  the  clock 
case.  I'm  not  the  lady-freemason." 

"Oh,  you  go  on;"  and  for  the  first  time  in  their  conversa- 
tion Mr.  Crunden  laughed  heartily  and  good-humouredly. 
Mrs.  Price  laughed  also,  and  was  going,  but  he  called  her  back. 

"I  say !    Has  Dr.  Blake  been  here  to-day  ?" 

"No,  not  for  the  last  three  days." 

"Well,  I  gave  him  a  pretty  straight  hint  not  to  come  and 
see  her  so  often." 

Mrs.  Price  became  very  serious. 

"Did  you,  sir?    I'm  sorry  you  done  that." 

"Why?    She's  better,  isn't  she?" 

"She's  very  listless.  She  sits  in  the  window,  and — hush! 
here  she  comes." 

Lizzie  certainly  entered  the  room  with  a  slow  footstep 
and  a  listless  manner.  She  was  looking  very  pretty  in  her 
sun  hat  and  one  of  the  blue  frocks  with  the  white  spots;  but 
her  face  was  too  pale,  and  the  shadows  of  the  hat  made  the 
orbits  of  her  grey  eyes  seem  too  large  and  too  dark.  Some- 
how she  seemed  all  at  once  to  have  become  thinner,  taller, 
more  fragile.  There  was  no  gaiety  in  her  face  or  in  her  voice 
as  she  greeted  her  father. 

"You  have  letters,  father?  Shall  I  do  them  for  you? 
I'm  quite  ready  to  do  them." 

While  she  spoke,  she  walked  across  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  The  faint  sound  of  a  horse's  feet  came  from  a  little  dis- 
tance. Mrs.  Price  lingered,  and  was  pretending  to  brush 
some  tobacco  ash  from  the  mantelpiece  while  she  watched 
her  young  mistress. 

"One  of  Sir  John's  horses — with  a  groom,"  said  Lizzie, 
turning  from  the  window.  "How  badly  grooms  ride !  Trot- 
ting the  horse  down  the  hill !  Mr.  Vincent  never  does  that." 

Her  father  had  vacated  his  seat,  and  stood  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand.  Lizzie  languidly  sat  down  before  the  bureau. 

"What  can  I  do,  father?" 

"My  dear,  you  can  answer  this  for  me.  Invitation  from  No. 
15,  Hill  Rise." 

Lizzie  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"An  invitation  ?" 


100  HILL  RISE 

"Very  flattering  invitation — to  subscribe  half  a  guinea  to 
the  district  Nurses'  Fund.  Well,  I  don't  grudge  that.  Are 
you  ready?  .  .  .  Dear  Sir " 

"Or  'Sir'?"  asked  Lizzie,  picking  up  her  pen.  "Perhaps 
'Dear  Sir'  sounds  too  familiar?" 

"He  calls  me  'Dear  Sir.' "  And  then  Mr.  Crunden  spoke 
testily.  "Oh,  have  it  as  you  like.  Perhaps  you'd  better  say : 
'Sir,  my  father  will  be  glad  to  lick  your  boots,  because  you 
are  a  Major  and  live  on  the  Hill  and  he  is  a  retired  builder 
and  lives  halfway  down  the  Hill.' '; 

Lizzie  turned  and  took  her  father's  hand  affectionately. 

"Dad,  how  silly  you  are  I  I  only  meant — I  only  meant — 
I'll  write  it  just  as  you  wish.  .  .  .  Any  more  letters  after 
this  one?" 

"Well,  if  it  doesn't  tire  you,  Liz;"  and  with  his  disen- 
gaged hand  old  Crunden  softly  patted  and  stroked  her  pretty 
hair. 

"Oh,  no.  ...  Yes,  dad,  I  do  feel  rather  tired  to-day. 
May  I  attend  to  it  in  the  evening?  I  shall  be  all  right 
then." 

"Very  good.    The  evening  will  be  time  enough." 

"Thank  you,  dad.  I'll  be  in  the  other  room — if  you  want 
me." 

Lizzie  put  the  letters  together  on  the  desk,  got  up,  looked 
out  of  the  window  again,  and  then,  with  slow  footsteps,  went 
towards  the  parlour. 

"There,"  said  Mrs.  Price  very  seriously;  "you  see.  Lan- 
guid, listless;  not  the  girl  she  was."  And  with  every  word 
Mrs.  Price  became  more  serious  and  solemn.  "You  can  see 
it  for  yourself.  If  I  was  you,  I  should  take  it  as  a  warning. 
She's  all  you  have  left  to  you.  Don't  neglect  it.  Kemember — 
don't  make  another  mistake." 

Mr.  Crunden  started. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"What  I  say." 

'Is  it  your  own  thought,  or  an  echo  of  something  you  once 
heard?"' 

"The  thoughts  are  my  own,  the  words  are  an  echo.  Yes— - 
I  meant  them  for  to  be  an  echo." 


HILL  RISE  101 

Mr.  Crunden  walked  over  to  the  empty  fireplace  and  took 
his  tobacco  jar  from  the  mantel-shelf. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  may  go.  And  you  may  mind  your 
own  business." 

Left  alone,  he  stood  perfectly  still,  with  the  china  jar  in 
his  hands,  thinking  for  a  long  time.  As  he  stood  thus,  it  was 
as  if  the  walls  of  the  room  had  faded,  as  if  the  years  had 
rolled  away,  as  if  the  past  was  showing  itself,  acting  itself 
before  him.  He  could  see  dead  faces,  could  hear  dead  voices. 
He  was  standing  here  no  longer.  He  was  sitting  upstairs  by 
a  sick-bed.  Mrs.  Price,  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  had  an 
arm  round  his  wife — who  was  dying.  The  poor  wife  whom 
he  loved  lay  whispering,  gasping,  fighting  for  breath,  while 
she  made  him  promise  to  guard  and  cherish  the  girl  that  was 
left.  He  could  hear  the  whispering  voice:  "Be  gentle  with 
her.  Kemember  Dick — remember.  Don't  make  another  mis- 
take." Then,  slipping  from  the  chair  to  his  knees,  he  prom- 
ised. It  was  night — the  middle  of  the  night — and  before 
the  dawn  came  she  was  dead.  Well,  he  had  kept  his  promise ; 
there  was  no  need  for  any  vow ;  for  his  own  sake  he  had  been 
kind  to  the  motherless  girl.  She  was  all  of  love  that  was  left 
to  him. 

Presently  he  replaced  the  tobacco  jar.  He  had  forgotten 
that  he  intended  to  smoke  a  pipe. 

"Well!    Who's  that?" 

On  this  warm  afternoon  the  front  door  was  open.  Some- 
one had  entered  the  lobby  and  was  tapping  on  the  wood 
panels. 

"Mr.  Crunden — are  you  alone  ?    May  I  come  in  ?" 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Dowling  ?    Yes,  come  in,  sir." 

"I've  got  something  to  show  you  that  will  amuse  you." 

"What  is   it?" 

"Look  here."  Mr.  Dowling  laid  his  billycock  hat  and  his 
umbrella  upon  the  table,  and  extracted  from  his  breast  pocket 
some  neatly  folded  documents.  "Particulars  of  the  sale." 

"Oh!" 

"An  advance  copy  sent  me  out  of  compliment  by  Griggs — • 
the  London  auctioneers,"  and  Mr.  Dowling  unfolded  the  auc- 
tioneers' printed  papers,  together  with  a  coloured  map,  which 


102  HILL  RISE 

he  carefully  spread  on  the  table.  "When  they  see  this  up 
there,"  and  he  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  Hill, 
"they'll  be  fairly  panic-stricken." 

Mr.  Crunden  came  to  the  back  of  the  table  and  glanced  over 
Mr.  Bowling's  shoulder. 

"  'Hill  Rise  Building  Estate/  "  he  read  aloud.  "  'Ripe  for 
development.' " 

"They're  a  sharp  firm — Griggs.  They  know  what  they're 
about/'  and  Mr.  Dowling  unfolded  another  map,  and,  in  his 
turn,  read  aloud :  "  'Suggested  scheme  for  laying  out  roads, 
to  secure  the  longest  frontages' " ;  and  Mr.  Dowling  chuckled 
admiringly  as  he  looked  at  the  plan.  "I  must  say  Griggs  has 
got  this  up  very  nicely." 

"  'No  restrictions  of  any  nature/ "  read  Mr.  Crunden, 
"  'are  imposed  upon  the  land.  .  .  .'  Ah !  .  .  .  'To  be  sold 
without  reserve!'  Do  you  believe  that?" 

"No;  of  course  not." 

"What  reserve  will  they  put  on  it  ?" 

"As  a  guess,  forty  thousand.  Thirty  thousand  if  they  are 
in  a  hurry  to  wind  up  everything." 

Crunden  grunted,  and  then  read  on  again. 

"  'An  electric  tram  service  would  further  open  up  this 
charming  area  and  throw  it  practically  into  the  heart  of  the 
town.' ''  When  he  came  to  this  point,  old  Crunden  gave  a 
most  scornful  grunt.  "Trams  couldn't  get  up  the  hill." 

"Why  not?"  said  Dowling.  "What  is  the  Hill  after  all? 
Look  here,"  and  he  reached  for  his  hat  and  spread  the  map 
across  the  crown  of  it.  "Here's  the  bridge.  Well,  your 
tram  swings  round  here — up  here — up  the  new  road.  Say, 
half  a  mile — gradient  not  more  than  one  in  twenty  at  the 
worst  part.  Of  course,  they  could  do  it." 

"Let  'em  do  it,  then." 

"But,"  said  Dowling  impressively,  "you  see  what  this 
•would  mean  to  Sir  John  and  the  rest  of  them — blue  ruin." 

"Well,  that's  their  lookout.     It  won't  keep  me  awake." 

"But  the  town?  How  will  the  town  like  it  now?  No  re- 
strictions. That's  a  pill  they  weren't  expecting.  It  wants 
some  swallowing.  Cheap  houses — workmen's  dwellings — 
anything  you  choose — all  over  here — over  the  Tennis  Club — 


HILL  RISE 

right  up  to  Sir  John's  gates.  Of  course,  it  is  Sir  John  who 
stands  to  lose  worst." 

"Sir  John's  freehold,"  said  Crunden,  studying  the  map, 
"is  only  the  ten  acres — no  more  ?" 

"No;  but  that's  too  much  to  see  spoilt  forever.  It's  a  pity, 
you  know.  Put  yourself  in  his  position.  Hill  House  belonged 
to  his  father,  and  his  grandfather  before  him.  He  has  always 
been  cock  of  the  hill,  with  the  best  people  for  his  neighbours. 
Oh,  I  do  say,  I  am  sorry  for  Sir  John !" 

Mr.  Bowling  had  been  stooping  so  long  over  the  table  that 
he  felt  stiff.  He  stood  up,  stretched  himself,  and  then,  begin- 
ning to  chuckle,  stooped  down  again. 

"I  am  honestly  sorry  that  Sir  John  should  have  this  annoy- 
ance. It  is  a  pity.  Oh,  it  is  a  great  pity!  But,"  and  Mr. 
Bowling  laughed  and  shook  his  head — "but,  upon  my  word,  it 
is  a  rattling  fine  development  scheme.  It's  something  big," 
and  he  looked  at  the  plan  admiringly.  "Something  I  should 
like  to  handle." 

"I  don't  doubt  you  would." 

"I  won't  say  that  a  purchaser  mightn't  burn  his  fingers. 
But,  if  all  went  well,  there  should  be  a  big  profit  hanging 
to  it — a  very  big  profit." 

"Houses  aren't  wanted." 

"They  would  be,"  said  Bowling,  with  sudden  enthusiasm. 
"Oh,  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  it  done.  But  at  thirty  thou- 
sand— at  thirty-five  thousand — I  believe  there's  a  fortune  in 
it.  Forty  acres!  Where  else  can  one  get  building  ground? 
This  town  has  gone  to  sleep  for  want  of  room  to  expand  in. 
All  those  frontage  plots  would  go  off  like  hot  cakes.  With 
luck,  one  would  cover  half  the  ground  and  get  back  the 
purchase  money — and  have  all  the  rest  clear  profit — wash  one 
hand  with  the  other." 

"Think  of  the  cost  of  the  new  roads." 

"I'd  do  them  bit  by  bit.  Look  here.  Begin  here — at  the 
outside.  Eetain  the  Hill  Eise  tenants  as  long  as  one  could. 
Why,  the  rents  of  Hill  Eise  would  keep  one  going." 

"Cottages  or  villas?" 

"Villa-cottages — all  under  one  roof — down  here.  Then  put 
better-class  semi-detached  above — thirty  to  forty  pounds  a 


104  HILL  RISE 

year.  Higher  up,  take  the  corners  and  build  one  or  two  decoy- 
houses — just  to  start  people.  Oh,  the  ground  would  soon  be 
covered  for  one." 

"I  wonder  if  you're  right?" 

They  were  both  poring  over  the  map,  with  heads  together. 
The  old  builder  was  so  deep  in  thought  that  he  scarcely  heard 
a  modest  tap  or  two  on  the  panels  of  the  front  door.  When 
the  tapping  was  repeated,  he  spoke  without  looking  round : 

"Come  in.  I  say,  come  in !  ...  Mr.  Dowling,  I  wonder  if 
you  are  right." 

"I  am  sure  I  am." 

It  was  Dr.  Blake,  the  eminent  physician,  who  entered  with 
a  certain  dignified  shyness,  which  seemed  to  indicate  doubt 
as  to  how  his  visit  might  be  received.  Standing  within  the 
threshold,  he  coughed. 

"Miss  Crunden?" 

"What  about  her?"  asked  old  Crunden,  still  not  looking 
round. 

"I  am  Dr.  Blake.    I  have  come  to  see  your  daughter." 

"Oh,  all  right,  Doctor.  Go  in,"  and  Crunden  nodded  to- 
wards the  parlour.  "You'll  find  her  in  there." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dr.  Blake,  no  longer  shy,  but  huffy; 
and,  assuming  all  his  professional  consequence,  he  marched 
across  the  room  behind  Mr.  Crunden's  back. 

Then,  at  last,  Mr.  Crunden  turned  and  came  towards  him. 

"Doctor,  I  wasn't  attending;  I  was  thinking  of  something 
else — L.  S.  D.  .  .  .  I  am  anxious  about  my  girl — very 
anxious.  Don't  neglect  her  case.  I  mean,  don't  consider  the 
expense." 

"My  dear  sir.  Really,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Dr.  Blake  huffily ; 
and,  opening  the  door,  he  went  into  the  next  room  to  find  his 
patient. 

Old  Crunden  waited  till  he  heard  Lizzie  speaking  to  her 
physician;  then  he  softly  closed  the  door,  turned,  and,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  stood  staring  before  him  as  though 
completely  lost  in  thought. 

Mr.  Dowling,  at  the  table,  was  running  a  graduated  rule 
over  the  plan.  "Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "there's  a  tremen- 
dous length  of  frontage.  By  the  way,  has  Sir  John  been  to  see 


HILL  RISE  105 

you  yet  ?  He  told  me  he  was  coming  to  ask  for  your  support. 
Did  he  call?" 

But  Crunden  gave  no  answer.    He  was  not  listening. 

"I  say,"  said  Dowling,  raising  his  eyes  from  the  plan. 
"What  is  it,  Mr.  Crunden?" 

"What?"  And  Mr.  Crunden  started,  and  took  his  hands 
out  of  his  pockets. 

"What  are  you  looking  at  ?    Have  you  seen  a  ghost  ?" 

"No,"  said  Crunden,  "I  heard  the  sound  of  a  ghost's  voice." 

"Eh  ?" 

"My  daughter — in  there.  Her  voice  reminded  me — of 
somebody  else's.  What  were  you  sajdng?" 

"Only  asking  if  Sir  John  had  been  here  yet." 

"No." 

"Well,  he  intends  to ;"  and  Mr.  Dowling  began  to  fold  up  his 
papers.  "Look  here — I'll  leave  these  with  you.  You  can 
keep  them  if  you  like.  I've  got  another  copy.  Griggs,  in 
fact,  sent  me  two  copies — out  of  compliment." 

"Thanks;  but  I've  seen  all  I  want " 

"With  regard  to  Sir  John,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  taking  up 
his  hat  and  umbrella,  "you  understand.  I'm  heart  and  soul 
with  Sir  John.  But  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  and  the 
land  is  to  be  built  over " 

"You'd  like  to  have  a  finger  in  the  pie." 

"Well,  I  should,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  laughing.  "Good-bye. 
Very  sorry  Miss  Crunden's  still  poorly.  But  you  can't  do 
better  than  Dr.  Blake.  Hope  he'll  soon  bring  her  up  to  the 
mark.  Good-bye." 

Mr.  Crunden  walked  about  the  room  till  the  parlour  door 
opened  again,  and  Dr.  Blake  reappeared. 

"Well?" 

Dr.  Blake  carefully  closed  the  door  before  he  spoke. 

"Mr.  Crunden,  you  tell  me  you  are  anxious.  I  think  you 
are  right  to  be  anxious.  .  .  .  Miss  Crunden  is  far  from 
well." 

"What  is  it?  Not — not  consumption — what  they  call — a 
decline?" 

"Oh,  good  gracious,  no !  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  nothing — noth- 
ing of  the  kind." 


106  HILL  RISE 

"What  is  it,  then?"  and  Mr.  Crunden  sat  down  by  the 
bureau  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  bandana  handker- 
chief. 

Dr.  Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  opened  his  hands. 

"Lassitude — weariness.  A  little  run  down,  shall  we  say? 
This  hot  weather  has  been  trying.  It  has  tried  many  of  my 
patients.  But  I  have  no  wish  to  alarm  you.  I  only  thought 
it  right  to  say  that,  in  my  opinion,  your  daughter  does  need 
care  and  attention." 

"Then  let  her  have  care — all  the  attention  you  can  give 
her." 

"My  dear  sir,  I  think  you  may  trust  me  not  to  overdo 
it.  I  will  not  come  more  often  than  I  think  necessary." 

"No,"  said  old  Crunden,  hastily  rising  from  his  chair, 
"don't  go  off  shirty  like  that.  I  mean,  if  I  said  anything 
wrong  in  etiquette,  I'm  sorry.  I  wasn't  thinking  what  I  said. 
But  I  ask  you  now  to  come  as  often  as  ever  you  like." 

"Oh,  my  dear  sir;"  and  Dr.  Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
But  his  tone  was  quite  bland.  He  could  relish  such  very 
plain  talk  better  now  that  there  was  no  third  person  present. 

"Come  every  day,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  escorting  the  doctor 
to  the  outer  door,  "if  you  judge  by  the  signs  it's  neces- 
sary. .  .  .  Good-bye,  sir."  And  then  he  called  after  the 
doctor :  "Come  twice  a  day — and  I  won't  grudge  it." 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  fellow  citizens,  after  the  town  fashion,  told  Mr.  Crun- 
den  he  was  "very  warm,"  they  were  much  nearer  the  mark 
than  was  usual  with  them  while  paying  similar  compliments. 
Messrs.  Holland  and  Bowling  had,  one  might  indeed  say, 
scored  bull's-eyes  when  they  said  that  Crunden  was  rich  with- 
out show — his  money  solid  and  yet  liquid — safely  put  by,  yet 
easy  to  get  at. 

Old  Crunden  loved  his  garnered  hoard:  not  as  a  miser, 
for  love  of  the  hoard  itself,  but  because  it  represented  his 
life's  work.  There  was  honest  pride  in  the  thought  of  it. 
He  was  a  builder  by  instinct  and  by  habit,  and  he  might  think 
of  his  fortune  as  the  unseen  monument  that  he  had  slowly 
built  up.  All  his  toil  had  gone  to  the  building  of  it. 
Money,  too,  is  power.  Here  all  his  energy  was  stored — 
his  life's  energy  converted  into  another  form.  It  was 
latent  energy  now,  but  at  any  moment  he  could  release 
it  and  say:  "This  is  the  power  that  lay  in  me,  Dick 
Crunden." 

He  hated  to  see  investments  dwindle.  Though  he  never 
meant  to  sell,  he  hated  to  watch  good  stocks  and  shares  go 
down  in  value.  He  felt  as  if  the  shrinkage  was  in  himself. 
With  each  lowered  quotation  in  the  stock  list,  a  little  strength 
had  gone  from  him.  And  he  regretted  the  slight  loss  of 
power  as  a  strong  man  regrets  the  least  atrophy  of  his  muscles 
or  waning  of  his  nerve  force.  But  such  diminutions  were 
rare.  On  balance  they  vanished.  One  sound  stock  went  down, 
but  another  sound  stock  went  up.  The  only  real  deprecia- 
tion of  market  value  was  in  the  ground-rents  originally  cre- 
ated by  him  and  still  retained.  Ground-rents,  as  a  premier 
security,  had  steadily  dropped  in  price  during  recent  years. 
Good  provincial  ground-rents  once  fetched  nearly  as  much 

107 


108  HILL  RISE 

as  metropolitan  ground-rents.  In  Medford  they  had  brought 
over  thirty  years'  purchase;  then,  dropping  and  dropping, 
twenty-five  years  became  the  usual  figure ;  now  it  was  twenty- 
three  years,  or  even  less. 

"So  long  as  you  hold  them,"  said  the  bank  manager,  "the 
selling  price  is  of  no  consequence  to  you,  Mr.  Crunden." 

Old  Crunden  loved  the  deference  and  consideration  that 
he  was  always  sure  of  in  the  manager's  room  of  the  Medford 
District  United  Bank.  He  might  walk  in  whenever  he 
pleased,  and  the  manager  was  never  too  busy  to  talk  and  to 
listen.  It  was  no  "How  do,  Crunden  ?"  in  here,  but  "Be  seated, 
Mr.  Crunden ;  and  in  what  manner  may  we  have  the  pleasure 
of  serving  you?"  Perhaps  of  all  the  town  the  bank  parlour 
was  the  only  place  where  Mr.  Crunden  felt  he  was  dealt  with 
exactly  at  his  proper  worth.  In  here  men  were  weighed  by  a 
most  unsentimental  method:  the  man  in  one  scale  and  his 
money-bags  in  the  other,  and  no  longest  pedigree  or  highest 
social  rank  added  sixpence  to  the  man's  weight. 

But  in  these  days  his  money  was  nothing  to  Crunden — 
less  than  nothing.  His  daughter  was  ill. 

Dr.  Blake  had  been  quick  to  avail  himself  of  the  tardy 
but  handsome  invitation.  He  came  now  to  King's  Cottage 
every  morning  or  afternoon. 

"I  want  to  see  her  gain  ground,"  said  Dr.  Blake.  "We 
are  not  gaining  ground  as  I  should  wish." 

Dr.  Blake  often  used  the  old-fashioned  "we"  when  speak- 
ing of,  or  directly  addressing,  a  patient.  He  was  big,  clean- 
shaved,  grey-haired;  wore  a  frockcoat  and  top  hat;  carried 
eyeglasses,  but  rarely  looked  through  them — a  physician  of 
the  old  school.  He  liked  such  maxims  as  "Festina  lente" 
"Nature  is  our  best  ally,"  "Prevention  is  better  than  cure," 
etc.,  and  the  only  modern  characteristic  in  his  practice  was  that 
he  employed  few  drugs.  Thus  he  hurried  slowly  with  Lizzie, 
gave  her  no  hasty  draughts  or  powders,  but  came  regularly 
to  ascertain  if  she  was  gaining  ground. 

"Well?"  asked  the  father,  with  increasing  anxiety,  "what's 
wrong  ?" 

"Nothing  organically  wrong.  You  may  rest  assured  of  that. 
Lassitude,  disinclination  for  effort." 


HILL  RISE  109 

"Shall  I  make  her  go  away  for  a  change?  It's  about  our 
usual  time — but  she  says  she  doesn't  feel  up  to  it." 

"Allow  us  a  week  or  two,"  said  Dr.  Blake,  "and  then  we 
may  be  glad  of  a  change  of  scene ;  but  at  present  our  lassitude 
stands  in  the  way." 

He  was  using  the  old-fashioned  "we,"  and  meant,  of  course, 
Lizzie's  lassitude,  not  his. 

We  would  not  go  out  for  walks,  we  would  only  loll  in  our 
basket  chair  in  the  garden;  drives  in  one  of  the  White  Hart 
landaus  gave  us  no  pleasure ;  we  dreaded  the  fatigue  of  a  hol- 
iday tour,  with  its  crowded  tables  d'hote,  noisy  hotel  bands, 
and  talkative  fellow-passengers  in  trains  and  on  steamboats. 
We  seemed  to  care  for  nothing  but  to  sit  with  an  unread-book 
on  our  lap  while  we  brooded  and  dreamed.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter with  us? 

Dr.  Blake  thought  the  liver  was  indubitably  sluggish,  and 
suggested  rides  upon  horses. 

"Take  up  riding,  Miss  Crunden.  Long,  quiet  rides  over  the 
hills  and  far  away — do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Lizzie.  "I  can't  ride — and  there's  no  one 
I  could  ride  with." 

"Mr.  Banker,  the  riding-master — just  the  person.  Banker 
is  a  splendid  horseman.  I  often  send  my  young  ladies  with 
him;  and  they  tell  me  he's  a  very  pleasant,  entertaining 
companion." 

"Oh,  no ;  I  should  hate  it." 

"Very  well ;  we  must  try  something  else." 

Why  should  she  be  ailing — pallid,  perceptibly  thinner,  with- 
out joy  in  life  ?  Old  Crunden's  heart  ached  when  he  thought 
of  it — and  that  was  nearly  always.  He  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  Sometimes,  as  he  thought  of  this  trouble,  his  feel- 
ing was  akin  to  anger — an  angry  revolt  against  the  injustice 
of  fate.  He  had  spared  no  expense;  he  had  never  grudged 
her  anything  that  money  or  love  could  buy;  he  had  done  all 
that  was  humanly  possible  to  earn  for  her  health  and  happi- 
ness. He  had  a  right  to  look  for  his  reward,  and  fate  was 
cheating  him  again:  instead  of  gaiety,  brightness,  laughter, 
was  showing  him  pale  cheeks,  sad  eyes,  slow  footsteps. 

When  people  talked  to  him  as  he  strolled  about  the  town  he 


110  HILL  RISE 

could  not  listen  to  them:  he  scarcely  grasped  the  main  sub- 
stance of  their  chatter.  Mr.  Selby  stopped  him,  and  walked 
with  him  a  little  way  one  afternoon. 

"Good-afternoon,  young  Crunden.     Goin'  down  town?" 

This  white-haired  old  man  with  the  shaky  hands  and  the 
threadbare  black  clothes  always  called  him  young  Crunden. 
He  was  old  Crunden  to  every  one  else ;  but  he  had  been  young 
Crunden,  working  for  his  father,  .when  Selby  was  prosperous 
and  the  chief  rival  of  Crunden  senior. 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Selby,  "some  Londoner's  going  to  buy 
the  Hill  la-'and." 

"I  dare  say." 

Crunden  habitually  avoided  the  old  man,  who  could  talk 
of  nothing  but  his  troubles,  and  who  depressed  one's  spirits  on 
the  brightest  day  by  the  maundering  recital  of  misery  past  and 
misery  coming.  But  this  afternoon  the  spirits  of  the  younger 
man  were  so  low  that  nothing  could  bring  them  lower,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  escape. 

"Ah !"  said  Selby.  "Yes— Hill  Eise  la'and !  That's  a  rich 
man's  ta'ask.  Such  ta'asks  are  easy  if  you  have  the  capital 
of  your  own.  Life's  easy  for  the  rich  men,  young  Crunden — 
like  a  game  of  ca'ards.  Ye  can  play  bold  and  win  if  you  don't 
care  whether  ye  win  or  lose.  But  they're  cruel  hard  on  ye 
if  you're  working  with  borrowed  money.  The  Bank  has  driven 
some  cruel  ba'argains  with  me.  .  .  .  'Tis  all  a  question  how 
long  I  can  hold  out  now.  .  .  ." 

Then  Selby  maundered  on  about  his  young  wife  and  chil- 
dren. He  had  been  a  rich  man  when  he  married  for  the 
•second  time.  "But  I  was  fool  enough  to  put  my  money  back 
into  bricks  and  mortar.  I  had  it  out  once,  but  I  put  it 
ba'ack.  'Tis  cruel  hard  on  me  young  wife.  I  ought  to  give 
her  pleasures,  and  I  can  barely  give  her  bread." 

At  a  corner  he  pulled  Crunden's  sleeve  and  pointed  down 
the  side  road  that  led  to  River  View,  the  terrace  of  houses 
which  he  had  built  late  in  life,  which  from  the  first  had  been 
a  dismal  failure. 

"There,  young  Crunden — there  sta'ands  my  folly  and  my 
punishment.  I  had  no  fear.  I  hoped  it'd  be  a  second  Hill 
Eise — filled  up  with  the  best  gentry — and  you  know  how  it's 


HILL  RISE  111 

turned  out.  That's  a  rich  man's  ta'ask.  I  should  never  'a* 
touched  it." 

Crunden,  not  really  listening,  thinking  of  his  sick  girl  at 
home,  walked  with  the  old  man  as  far  as  the  bridge,  and  then 
gave  him  a  sovereign  to  be  rid  of  him. 

"Thank  ye — young  Crunden.  You  were  always  a  good 
la'ad.  I  knew  your  fa'ather  well." 

Mr.  Selby  had  no  pride  left.  He  was  still  the  titular  owner 
of  his  disastrous  Eiver  View,  but  he  would  borrow  five  shil- 
lings from  the  humblest  citizen,  would  accept  half  a  crown 
as  a  present  from  the  housemaid  of  one  of  his  tenants.  He 
clung  desperately  to  his  ruinous  terrace;  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end  he  struggled  to  avoid  losing  possession  of  it;  the 
smallest  assistance  in  his  struggle  was  welcome.  You  could 
not  offend  him  so  long  as  you  aided  him. 

Some  days  Lizzie  seemed  more  languid,  some  days  less 
languid ;  some  days  she  seemed  almost  herself  again ;  but  every 
day — day  after  day  without  fail — Dr.  Blake  came  to  see  her. 
Then  one  day  there  was  a  sudden  change  to  cooler  weather,  and 
Lizzie  seemed  very  much  better.  Dr.  Blake  said  she  had 
gained  more  ground  in  twenty-four  hours  than  in  the  last  fort- 
night. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Price  to  her  master,  "I  begin  to 
think  you'll  have  to  give  the  doctor  another  hint — and  that  I 
was  wrong  to  speak  to  you  as  I  done — and  p'r'aps  it  was  only 
the  heat  after  all." 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  old  Crunden  eagerly,  "she's  really 
on  the  mend  then?" 

"I  begin  to  think  so.  She  says  she's  all  right,  and  never 
was  wrong.  She  says  it's  him  that  worries  her — coming  and 
asking  so  many  questions — cross-examining  of  her." 

But  then,  almost  immediately,  Dr.  Blake  did  something 
extraordinary  and  unexpected.  He  dismissed  himself.  He 
had  been  treated  handsomely  by  Mr.  Crunden,  and  perhaps 
he  was  anxious  to  show  that  he,  too,  could  act  handsomely. 
The  patient,  in  this  less  oppressive  weather,  now  walked, 
drove,  and  had  insisted  upon  writing  letters  for  her  father. 
She  was  out  for  a  walk  when  Dr.  Blake  paid  his  last  visit. 


112  HILL  RISE 

"Really/'  said  Dr.  Blake,  "unless  you  summon  me,  I  shan't 
•come  again." 

"Does  that  mean  she  is  all  right  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear  sir,  if  we  have  not  gained  as  much  ground 
as  I  hoped,  we  have  certainly  not  lost  ground.  I  wish  I  could 
be  of  further  service — but  I  doubt  if  I  can.  .  .  .  May  I  come 
into  the  garden  with  you?  I  should  like  a  few  confidential 
words." 

Mrs.  Price,  after  admitting  the  doctor,  had  not  withdrawn. 
She  was  listening  openly,  watching  the  doctor's  face,  hanging 
on  all  his  words. 

"That  good  soul,"  said  Dr.  Blake  in  the  garden,  "is  some- 
what inquisitive.  I  have  once  or  twice  had  a  little  difficulty 
in  getting  rid  of  her  when  I  wanted  to  hear  the  patient's  own 
account  of  herself." 

"Just  so,"  said  Crunden.  "She  pokes  her  nose  in.  But 
for  why?  Only  for  this,  sir:  she's  fond  of  my  girl.  She's 
very  fond  of  Liz." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  Dr.  Blake.  "And  your 
Mrs.  Price  is  an  excellent  good  soul,  I  am  sure.  But  I 
wanted  to  speak  quite  freely.  You  know,  in  a  sense,  I  have 
been  baffled  by  your  daughter's  case." 

"Baffled?"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  with  considerable  testiness. 
"If  that's  the  way  of  it,  surely  you  could  have  said  that  before 
now." 

"My  dear  sir,  you  misinterpret  my  meaning,"  and  Dr. 
Blake's  smile  was  blandly  tolerant.  "Only  quacks  pretend 
to  master  every  case  they  meet.  Well,  this  is  a  case  which  I 
have  not  completely  mastered.  Perhaps  no  doctor  could  have 
mastered  it." 

"We  might  have  given  another  doctor  the  chance,  anyhow." 

"Nay,  nay,  my  dear  sir;  that  is  scarcely  polite." 

"I'm  a  plain  man,  sir,"  said  Crunden  gruffly.  "If  my 
girl's  sick,  I  want  her  sound;  if  she's  sound — well,  there's 
an  end  of  it." 

"Bear  with  me,"  said  Dr.  Blake  urbanely.  "I  wish  to  be 
of  service  to  you.  I  am  a  father  myself,  you  know,  as  well 
as  a  doctor." 

There  was  much  kindness  in  his  tone  as  he  said  this.    He 


HILL  RISE  113 

seemed  to  drop  his  professional  manner.  He  seemed  deter- 
mined not  to  be  huffed.  He  was,  of  course,  dismissing  him- 
self, not  being  dismissed  by  Mr.  Crunden,  and  he  had  evi- 
dently made  up  his  mind  to  exit  graciously.  Eeally  the 
eminent  Dr.  Blake  was  not  a  bad  old  boy,  in  spite  of  his 
pompousness,  his  medical  maxims,  and  his  very  long  bills. 

"I  repeat,"  said  Dr.  Blake,  "I  wish  to  be  of  service  to  you 
both.  As  a  doctor,  I  can  say  outwardly  all  is  as  it  should 
be — but  there  is  this  lassitude.  Lassitude  at  Miss  Crunden's 
age  is  a  serious  thing.  By-the-by,  how  old  is  she  exactly?" 

"Twenty-two." 

"So  I  surmised — about  twenty-two.  A  critical  age — always 
a  critical  age.  ...  In  our  little  conversations  I  have  been 
struck  by  your  daughter's  charm  and  intelligence." 

"She's  had  a  good  education." 

"Unquestionably.  I  may  say — not  as  a  doctor — as  a  father 
— Miss  Crunden  is  a  very  charming  young  lady.  I  respect 
and  admire  her.  We  all  respect  her." 

Old  Crunden  snorted. 

"You  blackballed  her  for  your  tennis  club." 

"Not  I,  my  dear  sir.  I  proposed  her.  I  was  very  sorry 
to  hear  afterwards  what  had  occurred.  But  now — did  it  dis- 
tress her — make  her  unhappy  ?" 

"I  told  her,"  said  Crunden  proudly,  "she  oughtn't  to  care 
two  straws." 

"Good  advice.  But  then,  you  know,  young  ladies  of  twenty- 
two  are  often  fanciful — they  can't  always  act  on  good  advice. 
You  say,  however,  she  hasn't  fretted  about  that?" 

"No,"  said  Crunden,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "she 
wouldn't  be  such  a  fool.  No !" 

"No;  very  good.  But  if  some  fanciful  trouble  oppresses 
her — well,  I  suppose  she  doesn't  confide  everything  in 
you." 

"She's  a  sensible  girl.  If  she  wants  anything,  she  knows 
she  can  ask  for  it." 

"Oh,  very  good.  But  I'll  give  you  my  conjectures — it's  all 
they  amount  to — just  conjectures.  I  think  your  daughter  is 
unhappy — a  girl  pining,  as  it  were." 

"Why  should  she  pine  ?    For  what  ?" 


114  HILL  RISE 

"Ah !  I  can't  prompt  you  there.  You  can't  make  a  guess  ? 
Nothing  suggests  itself  to  you?" 

"No." 

"When  I  said  one  is  sometimes  baffled  by  a  case,  I  had  this 
in  my  mind.  You  know,  there  is  a  sickness  that  girls  are 
subject  to  which  is  not  easy  to  diagnose." 

"What  sickness  is  that?" 

"Love-sickness — only  a  conjecture — but,  is  she  in  love?" 

"No." 

"No  unhappy  love-affair?  Not  pining  for  some  handsome 
young  fellow  whom  she  knows  you  wouldn't  approve  of?  Mr. 
Crunden,  I  tell  you  fairly,  if  she  is  desperately  in  love — sick 
of  love,  as  girls  are  sometimes — that  would  at  once  account 
for  all  the  symptoms." 

"No,  it's  not  that.  Can't  be.  We  don't  have  young  fellows 
hanging  about  here — handsome  or  ugly.  Besides,  my  girl 
has  her  head  screwed  on  tight  enough." 

"Good.  Then  we  must  look  out  for  some  other  reason.  I 
tbought  I'd  tell  you  what  passed  through  my  mind — just  to 
offer  a  friendly  hint — which  I  hope  you  take  in  good  part." 

"I  thank  you,  sir." 

"Just  a  hint.  You  see,  she  has  no  mother  to  confide  in. 
I  think  if  you  can  win  her  confidence,  it  may  be  well.  En- 
courage her  to  confide  in  you.  Girls  need  a  safety-valve; 
girls  are  absurdly  fanciful.  I  learned  that  at  home  in  Hill 
Eise,  not  in  the  hospital  or  lecture-room.  Good-morning. 
I  shan't_come  again — unless  you  summon  me." 


CHAPTEE  X 

IT  was  after  tea,  and  Mary,  the  maid,  supervised  by  Mrs. 
Price,  had  just  carried  out  the  tea  things.  Old  Crunden,  at 
his  bureau,  was  trifling  with  the  last  number  of  The  Architect. 
Now  and  then  a  thoughtful  frown  brought  his  grey  eyebrows 
together  and  he  glanced  at  his  daughter,  who  sat  in  the  win- 
dow, absorbed  by  one  of  Mees's  library  novels.  Mrs.  Price, 
with  the  white  tablecloth  gathered  as  a  bag,  had  gone  out  and 
shaken  all  the  crumbs  into  the  road.  She  made  a  practice 
of  presenting  the  crumbs  to  the  birds  both  in  summer  and 
winter,  and  the  pretty  birds,  if  they  did  not  want  the  crumbs, 
at  least  gave  one  an  excuse  for  shaking  the  cloth  in  the  pub- 
lic eye. 

"Lor',"  she  said,  coming  in  again,  "it's  quite  chilly.  Going 
to  get  some  rain,  I  think." 

"It  is  chilly,"  said  her  master.  "Shut  the  lobby  door,  and 
shut  that  passage  door  behind  you,  when  you've  done  here." 

Mrs.  Price  folded  the  white  cloth,  spread  the  ornamental 
cloth,  placed  a  vase  of  roses  in  the  middle  of  the  table.,  and 
then  retired  to  the  kitchen. 

"Lizzie !" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Put  away  your  book,  Liz,  and  come  here." 

And  Lizzie  obediently  laid  down  the  absorbing  novel,  and 
came  from  the  window. 

"Get  my  pipe  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  pointing  to  the 
mantelpiece,  "and  the  jar.  No ;  I've  my  pouch  in  my  pocket." 
And  Lizzie  went  over  to  the  hearth.  "Matches — come,  look 
sharp !  I  hate  to  see  a  girl  crawl  about  a  room.  No  life,  no 
briskness."  Then,  in  a  softer  voice,  Mr.  Crunden  asked :  "Are 
you  tired,  my  dear  ?" 

"No,  not  particularly,"  said  Lizzie. 

As  she  offered  the  pipe  and  matches  to  her  father,  he  put 

115 


116  HILL  RISE 

his  arms  round  her  and  spoke  gently  and  most  affection- 
ately. 

"Lizzie,  my  girl,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  father;  I'm  all  right." 

"Then  sit  down  with  me  here,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "while 
I  smoke  my  pipe.  I'm  tired  myself.  .  .  .  There."  He  had 
pulled  his  chair  round  from  the  bureau  and  set  another  chair 
by  his  side  for  Lizzie,  and  now  he  filled  the  pipe  from  his  old 
leather  pouch. 

"There ;  now  we're  cosey."  Lizzie,  waiting  till  he  was  ready, 
had  struck  the  match  for  him,  and  he  was  puffing  out  little 
clouds  of  white  smoke. 

"Liz,  something  has  set  me  thinking — of  myself  most — 
and  of  you,  too.  It's  just  this :  Is  there  anything  you  fancy  ?" 

"How  do  you  mean — fancy?" 

"Do  you  want  horse-exercise  ?" 

"No,  father." 

"Dr.  Blake  let  fall  some  remarks  about  horse-exercise,  and 
it  has  struck  me  how  you  spoke  of  Sir  John's  horses.  Lizzie, 
do  you  wish  me  to  buy  you  a  horse  of  your  own — or  two 
horses?  I'll  do  it." 

"Oh,  no,"  and  Lizzie  took  his  hand  and  held  it  for  a  few 
moments.  "No,  certainly  not.  But  what  an  old  dear  you 
are !" 

"More  dresses  ?  .  .  .  More  novels — books  of  your  very  own, 
Liz, — a  little  library  of  the  best  books,  eh?  ...  Another 
piano?" 

"No,  of  course  not.    You  have  given  me  everything." 

"Fve  done  my  best.  Lizzie,  I  swear  I've  always  tried  to 
do  my  best — with  your  poor  mother,  with  your  brother,  most 
of  all  with  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  how  much  I've 
tried." 

"You've  done  everything,  father." 

"I've  worked  hard  in  my  time — and  the  work  tells.  I'm 
weather-worn,  rough-surfaced,  but  not  really  cross-grained, 
Lizzie.  I  love  you — if  I  don't  show  it — if  I  can't  show  it 
as  I  ought.  You  know  what  they  called  me — hedgehog? 
"Well,  I  dare  say  they  touched  me  off  proper  enough  with  that 
name.  But  I  love  you  most  dearly." 


HILL  RISE  117 

"And  I  love  you,  father." 

"I  am  proud  of  you." 

"And  I  am  proud  of  you." 

"Gammon !  No  gammon,  my  dear — but  you're  not  ashamed 
of  me.  That's  a  great  deal.  I  know  that,  and  I  am  grateful. 
I'm  proud  to  think  you  have  risen  above  me — proud  and 
happy  because  you  are  like  a  lady,  well-educated,  able  to  hold 
your  own,  in  any  conversation,  with  the  best  of  them.  .  .  . 
I  never  spared  the  expense.  But  now  I  have  been  thinking 
the  money  is  all  wasted — if  you  are  unhappy." 

And  Mr.  Crunden  put  down  his  pipe  on  the  desk,  turned, 
and  stretched  forth  his  hand.  Lizzie  had  risen  from  her 
chair.  She  went  slowly  to  the  window,  and  looked  out. 

"Well?" 

"If  I  ever  am  unhappy,  it  is  because  you  have  done  too 
much  for  me." 

"How's  that?" 

"Father,  will  you  believe  I  am  grateful  if  I  say  it?" 

"Go  on." 

"Then  I  wish,"  said  Lizzie,  with  a  sob,  "you  had  spared 
all  the  expense — and  brought  me  up  as  a  working  girl — 
never  taught  me  to  read  and  write,  never  taught  me  to  dream, 
but  sent  me  out  as  a  servant  to  work — work — work,  with- 
out time  to  dream,  as  I  do  now  all  day  long." 

"What  do  you  dream  of?" 

"Utterly  impossible  things." 

"And  your  dreams  make  you  unhappy  ?" 

"Miserably  unhappy — sometimes." 

"Ah !" 

Lizzie  sobbed  again,  wiped  her  eyes  hastily,  sniffed  once  or 
twice  as  she  put  her  handkerchief  away;  and  then  came  back 
from  the  window  and  laid  her  hands  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

"Father,  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  it.  Don't  notice  what  I 
said.  I  am  very  grateful,  really." 

"Sit  down.  Listen  to  me:  I  have  made  one  great  mistake 
— about  your  brother — Dick." 

"You  didn't  understand  him." 

"And  he  didn't  understand  me.  He  despised  my  work. 
But  I  blame  myself.  He  was  led  astray  by  others.  Well,  I 


118  HILL  RISE 

might  have  saved  him.  I  let  him  go.  I  wanted  him  to  have 
his  lesson,  and  then  come  back  and  we'd  start  fair  again.  .  .  . 
I  never  thought  of  his  dying  before  we  could  make  it 
up.  ...  I  blamed  myself.  Lizzie,  your  mother  blamed  me. 
It  broke  your  mother's  heart — she  was  never  the  same  after- 
wards, and  she  told  me  on  her  deathbed  to  be  careful  with 
you.  .  .  .  That's  what  I've  been  thinking  of  very  often 
lately — your  poor  mother's  words.  I  promised  her  I'd  do  my 
best." 

"You've  been  too  good  to  me." 

"Now,  what  are  your  dreams?  If  they're  impossible, 
they're  beyond  me;  if  not,  I'll  spend  my  last  penny  to  make 
you  happy.  ...  I  can't  say  more.  .  .  .  Why  don't  you 
answer  ?" 

Lizzie  had  turned  away  her  head.  She  pushed  back  her 
chair  and  was  about  to  get  up  again. 

"No,"  said  Crunden  sternly;  "stop  where  you  are!  You 
are  all  I  have  left;  you  and  I  must  understand  each  other. 
We'll  have  no  more  mistakes.  Tell  me  the  truth.  What  are 
you  pining  for?" 

"Father— I  can't  tell  you." 

"And  I  say  you  shall." 

He  had  spoken  very  sternly,  even  roughly;  and  now  he 
stood  over  her  and  grasped  her  wrists  to  hold  her  in  the 
chair. 

"Father— don't— please  ?" 

"Is  it  love  ?  Show  me  your  face !  Is  that  it  ?  Sick  of  love 
— are  you?  Well,  don't  be  afraid.  Answer  me!" 

She  had  brought  her  face  down  to  his  hands  and  would  not 
raise  it. 

"Father,  let  me  go !" 

"Answer  me !" 

"Then— yes !" 

"Who  is  it?    Tell  me  the  man's  name." 

«0h— I  can't!" 

"Who  is  it  ?    Answer  me !" 

She  had  begun  to  cry.  He  could  feel  her  tears  on  his  hands. 
He  stooped  over  her  to  catch  the  whispered  words. 

"Father,  it's  hopeless — quite  hopeless." 


HILL  RISE  119 

"That's  for  me  to  judge,  not  for  you.  Who  is  it?  ... 
What?  I  can't  hear." 

"Mr.  Vincent." 

Old  Crunden  dropped  her  wrists,  drew  back,  raised  his  arm, 
and  shook  a  clenched  fist  above  his  head. 

"Vincent !  Mr.  Jack  Vincent !"  And  he  laughed  bitterly. 
"Why — in  the  name  of  reason?" 

"Because — I  can't  help  it." 

"Why  can't  you  help  it?  Why?  Because  he  lives  at  the 
very  top  of  Hill  Kise.  Have  you  fallen  under  the  spell,  too  ?" 
And  gesticulating  violently,  he  walked  about  the  room.  "He 
is  idle,  dissolute " 

"No,  no !" 

"Good  for  nothing — but  because  his  father  is  a  baronet;" 
and  old  Crunden  bowed  low  as  if  to  an  invisible  presence. 
"Because  he  rides  a  cock  horse,  kisses  his  gloved  hand  to 
every  wench  he  passes " 

"No— never !" 

"Listen  to  me !"  and  old  Crunden  stopped  in  his  furious 
pacings.  "He  is  one  of  those  who  set  my  boy  wrong.  If 
he  comes  philandering  after  you " 

"He  doesn't." 

"But  you've  been  meeting  him  on  the  sly." 

"Father!"  cried  Lizzie  indignantly.  "I  haven't  spoken 
to  him  for  eight  years — not  since  he  used  to  come  here  with 
poor  Dick." 

"When  you  were  a  child — but  you  didn't  fall  in  love  with 
him  then?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"You  must  be  out  of  your  senses.    You  must  be  mad." 

"I  only  wish  I  was  dead." 

"There,  there,"  and  Crunden  came  back  to  his  daugh- 
ter's side.  "Don't  be  a  fool ;  don't  cry.  Come,  come,"  and  he 
sat  down  again  and  spoke  very  gently,  "confide  in  me — as 
though  I  was  your  mother.  Tell  me  all  about  it.  It's  non- 
sense— utter  nonsense — but  it'll  do  you  good  to  tell  me." 

"Father,  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  to  be  so  silly — and  you'll 
never  understand." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall." 


120  HILL  RISE 

"Well — you  don't  know  how  good  he  is.  Mother  liked  him, 
Dick  adored  him " 

"Worse  luck!" 

"He  was  a  good  influence  for  Dick.  He  tried  to  keep  him 
straight.  He  warned  him  against  Mr.  Lardner — and  all  the 
others." 

"Oh,  Lord !" 

"And  he  was  good  to  me — bringing  me  sweets  in  boxes, 
playing  with  me  and  Dick,  acting  things  together — and  I 
couldn't  help  loving  him.  No  one  could." 

Mr.   Crunden  grunted  loudly. 

"So,"  said  Lizzie,  "after  Dick  was  gone,  and  he  never  came 
again,  I  worked  him  into  all  my  dreams.  You  don't  know  how 
girls  dream — they  can't  help  it.  The  more  I  read  and  learned, 
the  more  I  dreamed.  That's  the  worst  of  books — they're  so 
unlike  life.  In  books  nothing  makes  any  difference — I  mean 
rank  or  wealth.  Love  bridges  every  gulf.  .  .  .  That's  all, 
father.  Don't  be  angry.  I'm  not  a  fool  really;  it's  only  a 
silly  dream — of  what  might  have  happened,  quite  naturally, 
if — if  I  had  lived  in  Hill  Eise."  And  Lizzie  once  more  burst 
into  tears. 

Old  Crunden  made  a  gesture  of  despair,  got  up,  and  walked 
about  again. 

"I  tried  not,"  said  Lizzie,  drying  her  eyes  and  sniffing,  "but 
I'd  no  work  to  occupy  me.  If  I'd  only  had  work  to  do;  if 
you'd  still  been  in  business,  and  I  could  have  really  worked 
for  you — as  a  clerk — or  bookkeeper — real  work  all  day  long — 
I  could  have  prevented  myself.  .  .  .  But,  father,  it's  nothing 
at  all — a  dream.  You  forced  me  to  tell  you.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
told  you." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me.    And  is  that  all  about  it?" 

"Yes." 

"On  your  honour,  there's  no  more  to  it?  No  secret  meet- 
ings, no  letters?" 

"No — on  my  honour." 

"You've  just  been  pining  for  my  lord  as  he  rode  by  your 
window — and  dreaming  that  you  were  my  lady!"  And  Mr. 
Crunden  endeavoured  to  laugh  cheerfully.  "Well,  well ;  what 
next?  Ha-ha!  It  is  a  good  joke,  really.  You'll  get  over 


HILL  RISE  121 

it,  my  girl — you  and  I  will  laugh  at  it  together.     There — 
there " 

Just  then  the  electric  bell,  ringing  sharply,  interrupted  Mr. 
Crunden's  affected  cheerfulness. 

"Some  one  at  the  door,"  Lizzie  whispered,  as  she  rose 
hastily.  "I'll  go;"  and  she  hurried  away  to  hide  her  tear- 
stained  face  and  red-rimmed  eyes. 

"Front-door  bell,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  coming  in  from  the 
kitchen  passage. 

Mr.  Crunden  put  his  finger  to  his  mouth  and  crossed  the 
room  on  tiptoe. 

"Wait ;  I  won't  see  any  one,"  he  whispered.  "Say  I'm  busy. 
No,  best  say  I'm  not  at  home,"  and  he  placed  himself  inside 
the  threshold  of  the  passage.  "Now — answer  the  bell." 

Then  Mrs.  Price  opened  the  lobby  door,  and  a  voice  was 
heard  outside  asking  courteously,  "Is  Mr.  Crunden  at  home  ?" 

"Oh,  Lor'!"  said  Mrs.  Price,  stepping  back.  "Oh,  yes;  at 
home  to  you — I'm  sure — if  he  isn't  at  home  to  any  one  else ;" 
and  she  dropped  a  curtsey,  drew  back  further  to  make  spacious 
entry  for  the  august  visitor,  and  in  awestruck  tones  announced 
his  name  and  title. 

"Sir  John  Vincent,  sir." 

"How  do,  Crunden  ?"  said  Sir  John,  offering  his  hand. 

"I — I'm  nicely,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  old  Crunden,  shaking 
hands. 

"Can  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes  for  a  chat  about  this 
most  disturbing  business?" 

"What — wha — what?"  old  Crunden  stammered.  "What 
— you — mean — sir  ?" 

The  visitor  nodded  towards  the  white  bill  that  decorated 
the  wall. 

"This  most  troublesome  sale." 

"Oh — ah,  yes,  of  course.  Just  so.  ...  Won't  you  sit 
down,  Sir  John?" 

The  visitor  was  self-possessed,  pleasant-mannered,  easily 
gracious ;  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  cane,  and  with  a  quite  un- 
consciously patronising  smile  accepted  the  chair  which  the 
host  had  pushed  forward  for  him.  The  host  was  embarrassed,. 


122  HILL  RISE 

flurried,  nervous;  his  grey  hair  was  disordered,  his  face 
flushed,  his  movements  were  awkward  and  abrupt. 

"You,  no  doubt,  have  been  thinking  of  Hill  Eise  ?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  I  have  been  thinking  a  lot  about  it." 

Mr.  Crunden  said  this  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  gone  to 
the  parlour  door,  opened  it,  looked  through  into  the  other 
room,  and  then  closed  the  door  again.  Now  he  went  to  the 
passage  door,  opened  and  closed  that. 

"I  have,  sir — thought  much." 

"Won't  you  sit  down  also  ?"  said  Sir  John,  very  pleasantly. 
"I  come  to  you  for  help,  Mr.  Crunden.  I  am  sure  you  will 
aid  us.  I  consider  we  are  all  threatened — I  mean  the  whole 
town  will  suffer  if  we  don't  save  Hill  Kise." 

"Do  you  think  so,  sir?" 

"I  do,  indeed.  I  have  been  sounding  everybody;  all  seem 
agreed.  This  is  a  case  in  which  the  Hill  and  Town  should 
act  as  one  man." 

"And  what  should  the  one  man  do,  Sir  John?" 

"Well,"  and  Sir  John  looked  rather  blank  for  a  moment, 
"that's  not  so  easy  to  say.  The  real  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
would  be  to  buy  the  estate,  put  it  in  the  hands  of  trustees, 
and  preserve  it  forever.  Mr.  Crunden,  don't  you  think  the 
town  ought  to  buy  the  property?  Don't  you  think  the  cor- 
poration ought  to  provide  half  the  money  at  least?" 

"Has  the  corporation  the  power?" 

"They  might  dedicate  a  portion  to  the  public — make  a 
pleasure  park  of  it.  They  could  dedicate  all  the  meadows  on 
the  western  side  without  injuring  us,"  and  Sir  John  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket.  "Just  glance  at  this,"  and  he  brought 
out  the  auctioneers'  catalogue.  "Messrs.  Griggs  have  sent  me 
an  advance  copy  as  a  compliment." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it." 

"Really!  I  didn't  know  they  had  sent  any  others.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Crunden,  I  make  no  secret :  this  scheme  has  frightened  me 
out  of  my  wits  almost.  It  is  really  too  infernal." 

"Looks  worst  on  paper,  p'r'aps." 

"Mr.  Crunden,  can't  we  put  our  heads  together  and  do 
Bomething?  Do  help  us — with  your  weight  and  influence, 
and  your  knowledge  of  business  matters.  ...  I  am  trying 


HILL  RISE  123 

to  get  up  a  meeting.  I  am  doing  all  I  can,  but  time  is  so 
short.  Mr.  Crunden,  I  make  no  secret.  I  am  in  earnest — 
bitterly  in  earnest — when  I  say  the  thing  is  a  confounded 
nightmare  to  me.  My  dread  is,  we  shan't  be  given  time — they 
may  sell  by  private  treaty  before  the  advertised  date.  .  .  . 
Fellows  have  been  down  from  London  going  over  the  ground. 
There  was  a  fellow  with  a  red  tie  and  a  white  hat,  who  meant 
business — sort  of  surveyor — from  one  of  these  land  com- 
panies. I  believe  that  fellow  in  the  red  tie  meant  to  make 
a  reporting  bid  the  minute  he  got  back  to  London." 

Mr.  Crunden  had  again  gone  to  the  parlour  door  and 
opened,  then  softly  shut  it. 

"Sir,  I  think  I  might  help  you." 

"Do — like  a  good  fellow." 

"If  I  gave  my  mind  to  it,  I  believe  I  could  work  out  some 
plan." 

"Yes,  do,  do." 

"But,  Sir  John,  I  can't  give  my  mind  to  it — not  now." 

"Think  it  over,  but  remember,  hours  are  precious." 

"I  can  only  think  of  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  I'm  thinking 
of  myself  now." 

"Surely  our  interests  are  identical.  You  don't  want  the 
place  ruined." 

"Sir,  may  I  speak  frankly  ?    May  I  speak  my  thought  ?" 

"By  all  means." 

"I  have  very  little  interest  with  the  corporation.  They 
went  fierce  against  me — when  I  opposed  them  building  the 
new  Town  Hall " 

"A  piece  of  extravagant  folly." 

"Just  so ;  but  those  who  ought  to  have  supported  me,  kept 
me  off  the  Council;  they  turned  me  out.  The  town  thinks 
naught  of  me." 

"But  the  town  knows  you  are  rich." 

"They  don't  know  how  rich  I  am." 

"I  congratulate  you." 

Mr.  Crunden  was  nervously  wiping  his  hands  with  his  ample 
bandana  handkerchief.  There  were  beads  of  perspiration  on 
his  forehead,  and  a  red  glow  rose  to  his  temples  as  he  made 
his  unusual  boast. 


124  HILL  RISE 

"I'm  a  richer  man  than  folk  guess.  I've  worked  hard — 
and  I've  done  right  well.  .  .  .  Sir,  I  follow  your  lead :  I  make 
no  secret.  As  a  gentleman  said  to  me  the  other  day — it  was 
Mr.  Cowling — he  said  I  hadn't  gone  in  for  display — kept 
my  money  safe,  out  of  sight,  but  it's  there  all  right." 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  visitor  patronisingly,  but  kindly,  "you 
deserve  the  respect  of  all.  It  is  the  men  of  your  class  who  by 
steady  industry  amass  fortune,  and  who  are  wise  enough  not 
to  have  their  heads  turned  by  prosperity,  and " 

"Yes,  but  I'm  an  ambitious  man.  I  have  great  ambitions — 
tremendous  ambitions." 

"No  unworthy  ambitions,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  There's  my  daughter.  I'm  ambitious 
for  her.  Sir,  I  have  worked  hard  to  make  a  lady  of  my  girl." 

"Not  without  good  results.    She  is  a  charming  young  lady." 

"That's  the  very  words  of  another  gentleman — who  lives 
in  Hill  Eise.  It  was  Dr.  Blake.  Another  gentleman,  he  said 
my  girl  can't  look  too  high.  That  was  Mr.  Dowling  again. 
He  said  it,  and  he  meant  it." 

"Mr.  Crunden,"  said  Sir  John,  with  unaffected  kindliness, 
"you  are  thinking  of  that  unfortunate  business  at  the  Club. 
I  can  assure  you  it  was  simply  a  rule — that  couldn't  be 
broken.  It  was  in  no  sense  an  affront  to  Miss  Crunden." 

"Thank  you.  No — tradesman's  daughter!  It  was  meant 
for  me.  That's  how  I  took  it.  Poor  girl !  Her  father  stood 
in  her  way.  But  her  father  can  get  out  of  her  way — when 
the  time  comes." 

"Crunden — my  good  fellow,  let  me  see  what  I  can  do.  If  an 
exception  can  be  made — we'll  make  it.  Is  that  what  you 
want  from  us  ?" 

"No;  I  want  a  thousand  times  more.  I  want  your  son 
from  you — I  want  your  son,  Mr.  Jack,  for  my  daughter's  hus- 
band. That's  my  ambition." 

For  a  few  moments  the  visitor  stared  at  his  host  in  open- 
mouthed  surprise. 

"I  fear  that  ambition  cannot  be  realised.  .  .  .  But  you  are 
joking?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  .  .  .  No,  don't  answer  me  now.  Think 
it  over;"  and  the  host  leaned  across  the  table  and  spoke  with 


HILL  RISE  125 

extraordinary  eagerness  and  intensity.  "I  know  how  it  must 
sound  at  first.  Just  a  dream — a  mad  dream — old  Crunden 
gone  out  of  his  senses.  But,  sir,  it's  all  right." 

"Stop — please!  Has  my  son  been  foolish  enough  to  rouse 
hopes  ?" 

"No;  never  a  word  said.  But  he'll  do  it,  if  you  ask  him. 
Why  shouldn't  he  ?  My  girl  isn't  the  sort  to  frighten  a  man — 
and  there's  money  behind  her." 

Sir  John  laughed,  and  was  about  to  rise. 

"Keally,  this  is  rather  absurd.    My  son  is  over  thirty." 

"He'd  do  what  you  tell  him.  Please  don't  answer  me  now. 
I  ask  you  to  think  it  over." 

"Mr.  Crunden — what  shall  I  say?  We  have  very  different 
views  for  our  son.  When  he  marries,  it  will  not,  I  think,  be 
for  money,  and  it  will  be  in  his  own  walk  of  life — that  is,  if  he 
marries  with  my  consent." 

"Don't  answer  me.  Sit  down,  sir,  and  hear  me  out;  then 
think  it  over.  Your  lad's  thirty — more'n  old  enough  to  be 
settled.  What  good's  he  doing  loafing — I  should  say,  stroll- 
ing— about  the  town  here?  Where's  he  drifting,  where's  he 
dropping  to — while  he  waits  his  turn — till  you  are  gone?" 

Sir  John  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Don't  mind  how  I  put  it.  Take  the  sense,  not  the  words. 
I'm  in  earnest — bitterly  in  earnest.  JTis  the  wisest  thing- 
you  could  do  for  him.  You  say :  Marry  with  your  consent — 
suppose  he  doesn't  ask  it?  S'pose  he  comes  and  tells  you  he 
means  to  marry  some  barmaid  at  the  White  Hart,  or  a  singing* 
wench  from  the  theatre.  You  can't  stop  him.  Let  him  take 
my  girl.  He'll  get  a  girl  who — who'll  love  him  with  all  her 
heart  when  he  asks  her  to  do  it — and  I'll  move  out  of  their 
way.  I  won't  disgrace  them.  Old  Hedgehog  Crunden  will 
disappear  down  the  next  hedgerow." 

Sir  John  rose  and  stood,  hat  in  hand. 

"There!  This  is  my  offer,  Sir  John.  I  am  bitterly  in 
earnest.  Think  of  it — don't  answer.  It's  a  fair  bargain.  Let 
me  have  the  son-in-law  I've  set  my  dreams  on,  and  I'll  save 
Hill  Eise.  I  can  do  it — somehow.  I'll  do  it  for  you,  and  I'll 
settle  twenty  thousand — in  cash  or  ground-rents — on  them 
two;  and  you  shall  settle  Hill  House,  to  come  to  them  when 


126  HILL  RISE 

you  are  gone.  There :  that's  the  bargain.  Take  time  to  think 
of  it." 

"Really,  time  is  not  necessary.  I  have  explained  that  really 
it  can't  be  thought  of  seriously." 

"No,  no !    Don't  answer." 

The  ease  of  manner  and  smiling  self-possession  of  Sir  John 
had  vanished.  He  had  been  vastly  surprised,  considerably 
embarrassed;  he  appeared  to  make  an  effort  to  summon  back 
the  unruffled  presence  of  the  great  Sir  John  of  Hill  House, 
chairman  of  public  meetings,  magistrates'  bench,  etc.  But 
the  effort  was  not  entirely  successful;  kind  feeling,  perhaps, 
warred  with  outward  dignity. 

"Really,"  he  said,  "I  must,  at  all  costs,  be  explicit.  Im- 
possible. Your  bargain  is  impossible.  Mr.  Crunden,  we  are 
born  with  our  prejudices — foolish  prejudices,  it  may  be — but 
we  can't  shake  them  off." 

"Think  it  over." 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  discourteous;  but,  if  you  can  only  help 
us  on  these  terms — in  the  plainest  words — I  would  rather  see 
Hill  Rise  in  the  hands  of  the  speculative  builders." 

"So,  that's  your  answer?" 

"Yes,  that's  my  answer,  Mr.  Crunden." 

Old  Crunden  pulled  himself  together,  gave  his  head  a  shake, 
and,  before  he  spoke,  moved  towards  the  front  door. 

"Very  good,  sir.  All  right.  That's  over — and  done  with. 
Please  forget  what  I've  said.  Please — don't  go  away  and 
laugh  at  me." 

"No,"  said  Sir  John  at  the  door;  "no,  certainly  not." 

"I'd  ask  you — humbly — Sir  John,  as  a  favour,  "never  to 
speak  of  it — to  any  one.  Not  to  Mr.  Vincent  himself." 

"Not  to  him?"  and  Sir  John  hesitated.  "Yes,"  he  said 
kindly.  "Very  well,  Mr.  Crunden,  I'll  respect  your  wish ;"  and 
he  offered  his  hand.  "Let's  both  forget  all  about  it," 

"Thank  you,"  said  Crunden,  not  seeming  to  see  the  offered 
hand.  "Let  me  open  the  door  for  you,  Sir  John."  And  he 
stood  by  the  door,  bowing  low,  as  Sir  John  passed  out. 

Lizzie,  upstairs  in  her  room,  heard  the  front  door  shut,  and, 
looking  out  of  her  latticed  window,  saw  the  visitor  walk  across 


'I  want  your  son,  Mr.  Jack,  for  my  daughter's  husband.'' — Page  124 


HILL  RISE  127 

the  road.  She  came  bounding  down  the  stairs,  ran  through 
the  parlour,  and  burst  into  the  sitting-room. 

"Father!" 

"Well?" 

She  was  holding  a  hand  to  her  side  as  though  sudden  fear 
or  haste  had  taken  her  breath  away;  her  lips  trembled,  her 
voice  shook. 

"It  was  Sir  John,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  was  Sir  John." 

"What  were  you  talking  about  so  long  ?" 

"You." 

"Father— you  didn't  tell  him?    Say  you  didn't  tell  him !" 

"I  did  my  best.  I  asked  for  his  son's  hand  in  marriage, 
and  he  refused." 

"Father!  How  could  you?  Oh,  it  was  cruel — it  was 
wicked  of  you  to  betray  me." 

"I  didn't  betray  you.     Don't  blame  me." 

"I  think  I  shall  die  of  shame.  Oh,  father!  Don't  you 
understand  what  you've  done?  All  the  world  will  laugh 
at  me.  If  they  knew,  there's  not  a  girl  in  the  place  -but 
would  point  at  me  and  mock  at  me.  .  .  .  And  what  will  Mr. 
Jack  think  of  me  when  he  hears  ?" 

"He  won't  hear — and  I  kept  you  out  of  it  in  that  sense.  I 
asked  for  myself." 

"But  Sir  John  will  tell  him — and  then  he'll  guess." 

"No,  he  won't.  Sir  John  promised  not  to  tell  him.  Sir 
John  will  keep  his  word." 


CHAPTEE  XI 

LIZZIE  CRUNDEN"  took  to  her  bed,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  wished  that  the  bed  had  been  her  grave.  At  least, 
she  believed  that  she  wished  it.  She  whispered  the  words  to 
herself :  "I  wish  I  was  dead.  I  only  wish  I  was  dead."  The 
wall  was  just  before  her  eyes,  in  reach  of  her  hand;  and 
with  her  finger  she  traced  the  outlines  of  bouquets  and  rib- 
bons that  repeated  themselves  again  and  again  on  the  wall- 
paper, while  she  lay  thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  At  night 
she  stared  with  widely  opened  eyes  through  the  heavy  dark- 
ness of  the  room  at  the  lesser  darkness  outside  the  muslin 
curtains  of  the  window.  And  by  night  and  by  day  hot  shame 
swept  over  her,  in  great  waves,  every  time  that  she  thought 
of  Mr.  Jack.  One  thought  especially  made  her  like  a  swimmer, 
struggling,  drowning  in  a  vast  sea  of  shame. 

It  was  the  second  time  that  she  had  proposed  to  Mr.  Jack. 
This  was  the  thought  that  completely  overwhelmed  her.  For 
years  now  she  had  flushed  hotly  whenever  she  remembered 
that  as  a  child  she  asked  Jack  to  marry  her.  That  was  a 
thing  even  a  child  should  not  have  done.  And  now  that  she 
was  grown  up,  her  father,  acting  as  ambassador,  had  done  it 
for  her  again.  Mr.  Jack,  if  he  heard  of  the  second  diplomatic 
proposal — and  could  one  hope  that  he  would  not  sooner  or 
later  hear  of  it? — would  immediately  recall  the  first  most 
brazenly  direct  proposal. 

Mrs.  Price,  with  handkerchief,  plain  water,  and  eau-de- 
cologne,  could  not  take  the  throb  from  one's  forehead;  or, 
with  tea  and  lemonade,  slake  the  fever  of  this  dreadful 
thought.  Only  one  alleviation  of  torment  was  within  the 
scope  of  Mrs.  Price. 

"Pricey,  keep  Dr.  Blake  away.  Don't  let  him  be  fetched. 
If  he  comes  here  questioning  me,  I  shall  go  out  of  my  mind — 
or  get  up  and  commit  suicide." 

138 


HILL  RISE  129 

Such  wild  words  frightened  Mrs.  Price  sorely. 

"Oh,  my  pet,  we  must  fetch  him  if  you  ain't  yourself. 
You  do  seem  worse  than  the  headache  should  make  you." 

"It's  only  a  headache — and — and  a  crisis  of  nerves,"  said 
poor  Lizzie,  compelled  to  account  for  her  trouble,  and  perhaps 
achieving  a  lucky  fluke  in  diagnosis.  "Promise  you'll  keep 
Dr.  Blake  away.  At  any  rate,  till  to-morrow." 

"It's  on'y  her  nerves,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  downstairs, 
with  a  long  face.  "And  she'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

Lizzie  thought  of  herself  as  a  woman  who  had  offered  her 
heart  to  a  man,  who  had  earned  the  reprobation  of  all  woman- 
kind— even  though  the  offer  had  been  made  unintentionally, 
quite  by  accident.  She  thought  of  herself  as  grown  up;  yet 
in  truth  she  was  only  a  child  still.  In  spite  of  her  twenty- 
two  years,  she  was  childlike  in  feeling  and  sentiment;  no 
more  a  real  "grown-up"  than  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Hill 
— than  Mr.  Lardner  at  forty,  or  Mr.  Eidgworth  at  fifty.  The 
soft,  enervating  southern  air  had  kept  her,  too,  young  and 
foolish.  But  as  she  lay  now  painfully  brooding  over  the 
present  and  the  past,  it  was  as  though  her  childhood  was  slip- 
ping from  her  forever.  This  was  the  end  of  all  her  childish 
dreaming.  This  was  what  her  nonsense  had  brought :  writh- 
ing shame,  shaking  fear  of  public  discovery  and  world-wide 
disgrace. 

What  had  her  love  been  ?  Nothing,  really — as  she  had  told 
her  father — vague  smoke  rising  here  and  there  from  little 
rubbish  heaps  of  thought  set  on  fire  by  careless  fancies ;  vague 
fumes  hovering  over  a  lake  of  stagnant  erudition;  essence  of 
idiocy  laboriously  distilled  from  hundreds  of  trashy  library 
novels.  Not  Jack  Vincent,  the  man  himself,  had  been  the 
object  of  her  desire,  but  a  splendid  impossibility;  not  a  live 
hero,  but  all  the  heroes  in  all  Mr.  Mees's  novels  rolled  into 
one  moving,  smiling  shadow  of  a  man.  The  real  Mr.  Vincent 
had  no  power  over  her;  she  was  only  in  love  with  his  shining 
ghost.  That  was  her  love,  as  it  seemed  to  her  now,  and  yet 
she  had  been  unable  to  hold  it  in  safe-keeping.  She  must 
needs  babble  of  her  folly.  The  craving  to  talk  of  it  had 
rendered  her  an  incompetent  guardian  of  her  own  secret. 

Then  she  thought  of  her  schooldays,  and  the  schoolgirl 


130  HILL  RISE 

loves  about  which  they  all  used  to  chatter.  Every  girl  in  the 
school  who  had  passed  her  fourteenth  birthday  was  in  love 
with  somebody — the  school  doctor,  the  Eastbourne  curates,  the 
Eastbourne  riding-masters ;  or,  failing  such  handy  local  lovers, 
just  the  actors,  statesmen,  soldiers,  chosen  from  the  revolving 
racks  of  picture  post-cards.  One  girl — Edie  Pritchard — had 
a  hundred  and  twenty-three  post-cards  bearing  the  portrait  of 
a  famous  general.  She  could  love  none  other ;  and  if  nothing 
came  of  it,  if  they  should  never  meet,  or  he  should  be  killed  in 
battle,  she  would  live  and  die  unmated.  She  said  so  herself. 
Sybil  Goring  worshipped  the  music-master,  a  notoriously  mar- 
ried man,  who  came  to  impart  expression  to  the  elder  girls 
when  Miss  Metzler  had  given  them  executive  force  and  ac- 
curacy. "I  worship  him,"  said  Sybil,  not  in  the  least  hiding 
her  secret.  "I  would  lie  down  before  his  feet  and  let  him 
trample  on  me.  .  .  .  Look  out !  here  he  comes."  And  per- 
haps, in  an  access  of  maidenly  confusion,  Sybil  ran  away  from 
her  all-unconscious  enslaver. 

They  talked  of  their  loves,  whispered  as  they  trudged  two 
by  two,  were  chaffed  and  teased  about  their  loves;  suffered 
heart  pangs  one  minute,  enjoyed  almond  rock  the  next;  and 
in  the  end  no  harm  came  to  them  from  the  love  or  the  sweet- 
meat. Both  were  forbidden  by  the  school  authorities,  but  the 
almond  rock  was  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two ;  it  woke  you 
in  the  night  sometimes  and  made  you  seriously  uncomforta- 
ble, whereas  a  freely  discussed  love  never  yet  kept  a  schoolgirl 
awake. 

Thinking  of  these  matters,  poor  Lizzie  Crunden  reached 
something  like  a  calm  analysis,  and  worked  out  her  general 
law.  Love  talked  of  vanished;  like  a  volatile  gas  it  floated 
away  in  chatter  and  laughter,  innocuously  mixed  itself  with 
the  sunlit  air,  and  produced  no  explosion.  It  was  deadly  and 
tremendous  only  when  you  bottled  it  up  too  closely.  If  she 
could  have  obtained  girl  friends  for  trusting  confidence,  she 
would  have  been  cured  of  Mr.  Jack  long  ago.  She  was  almost 
bursting  when  her  father  sternly  questioned  her,  and  Mr.  Jack 
came  gurgling  out  with  a  most  lamentable  expansion. 

Well,  she  thought,  she  was  cured  now;  but  alas,  at  what 
a  cost! 


HILL  RISE  131 

Old  Crunden  came  upstairs  to  see  her  once  or  twice  while 
the  crisis  of  nerves  still  endured.  He  sat  by  the  bed,  patted 
her  shoulder,  took  her  hot  hand,  and  stroked  it  softly. 

"Lizzie,  my  dear,  don't  let  yourself  down  like  this." 

"I  can't  help  it,  father;  I  can't  get  over  your  telling  Sir 
John." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that;  it  was  just  between  Sir  John 
and  me.  It  won't  go  any  further." 

"Why  did  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  For  half  an  hour  I  was  under  the  spell 
myself,  I  suppose.  But  I  want  to  break  the  spell  forever." 

Another  time  Mr.  Crunden,  sitting  by  the  bed,  appealed  to 
Lizzie's  pride  and  courage. 

"Liz,  my  lass,  don't  lower  yourself;  get  up  and  come  out, 
and  show  yourself  to  all  the  world — by  your  father's  side.  I 
want  you  by  my  side." 

"I'll  be  better  to-morrow.  Then  I'll  get  up — and  do  any- 
thing you  tell  me." 

"That's  right.  I  can't  stand  it — your  lying  here  all  the 
day.  I  want  to  see  my  girl  bright  and  cheerful.  Whatever 
I  have  done,  Liz,  I  did  it  for  your  sake.  Don't  blame  me,  but 
help  me.  Show  yourself  by  my  side." 

Then  Lizzie  promised  to  finish  with  her  little  crisis.  She 
would  get  up  and  be  right;  but,  before  resuming  everyday 
life,  she  wished  to  go  away  from  Medford. 

"Take  me  somewhere  right  away,  father,  where  I  can  for- 
get all  about  it." 

But  Mr.  Crunden  said  that  "after  this  upset"  he  felt  he 
could  not  go  holiday-making. 

"You  should  have  come  when  I  asked  you,  Liz,  then  all 
this  wouldn't  have  happened.  I  can't  go  now." 

Yet  he  wished  her  to  have  the  change  of  air  and  scene 
spoken  of  by  Dr.  Blake.  Could  they  not  find  some  one  to  take 
Lizzie?  He  would  not  grudge  the  expense  of  a  lady-com- 
panion. 

Lizzie  finally  thought  of  an  elderly  Miss  Fleming,  who  had 
been  a  governess  at  the  Eastbourne  School.  This  lady,  with 
whom  Lizzie  corresponded,  might  act  as  chaperon.  And  the 
lady  jumped  at  the  chance.  She  would  take  her  well-remein- 


132  HILL  RISE 

bered,  highly  valued  Lizzie  Crunden  for  a  fortnight  to  a  most 
delightful  farmhouse  on  the  north  coast  of  Cornwall. 

"Very  good/'  said  Mr.  Crunden;  "let  her  come  down  here 
to  stay  the  night,  and  if  I  like  the  look  of  her,  we'll  arrange 
it." 

Miss  Fleming,  by  sobriety  of  demeanour  and  by  ladylike 
conversation,  at  once  satisfied  Mr.  Crunden  that  she  was  a 
proper  person  for  the  charge,  and  with  her  Lizzie  went  away. 

"Come  back  your  old  self,  Liz,"  said  her  father,  on  the 
morning  of  departure.  "That's  all  I  ask.  .  .  .  We'll  be  wiser 
— both  of  us — henceforth.  And  perhaps  I'll  find  some  work 
for  you.  You  know  what  you  said.  If  I  give  you  real  work — 
helping  me — will  you  do  it  with  all  your  heart  ?" 

"Yes,  I  promise." 

"All  right,  my  lass.    Good-bye.    Come  back  your  old  self." 

But  this  Lizzie  could  not  promise.  As  the  good  swift  train, 
carried  her  westward  to  the  land  of  yellow  gorse,  black  rocks, 
purple  heather,  she  knew  that  her  old  self  was  gone,  never  to 
return.  She  had  taken  to  her  bed  as  a  foolish,  overgrown 
child;  she  had  risen  from  it  a  responsible  woman.  No  more 
nonsense  now ;  she  would  eat  plenty  of  Cornish  cream,  drink  in 
the  strong,  clean  wind,  harden  her  limbs  with  arduous  climb- 
ing and  tramping;  get  thoroughly  strong  and  well,  and  bring 
home  to  father  a  wise,  staunch,  unflinching  daughter.  This 
must  be  her  task :  to  live  down  and  expiate  the  follies  of  youth 
by  a  blameless  and  steady  middle-age. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

THE  date  of  the  sale  had  come  and  gone. 

Nothing  had  issued  from  all  the  excitement  and  all  the 
meetings.  The  Town  would  not  interfere;  the  Hill  was  not 
ready  with  any  definite  plan  of  action.  It  was  as  though  after 
opening  the  campaign  with  energy,  the  commander-in-chief 
and  his  generals,  when  the  day  of  battle  came,  had  no  availa- 
ble force  to  put  into  the  field.  One  might  doubt  if  a  single 
man  went  up  from  Medford  to  see  what  happened  in  the 
Mart,  London,  at  3  P.M.  precisely.  Medford  read  in  the  news- 
papers of  the  catastrophe.  The  property  had  been  offered  in 
one  lot,  and  knocked  down  for  thirty-seven  thousand  pounds. 
Was  this  a  real  bid,  or  merely  the  auctioneers  buying  in  for 
the  owners?  No  one  in  Medford  seemed  to  know  for  certain, 
but  the  London  newspapers  said  it  was  a  sale.  Local  rumour 
added  that  Sir  John — still  active — had  heard  from  Messrs. 
Firmin,  who  confirmed  the  newspaper  reports.  The  auction- 
eer's hammer  had  dealt  a  genuine  knockdown  blow;  but  the 
purchase  was  not  yet  completed.  Until  the  completion  of  the 
purchase  the  solicitors  must  withhold  the  purchaser's  name. 

One  afternoon  of  late  August,  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  and  a 
friend  discussed  the  position  of  affairs,  and  nothing  could  bet- 
ter illustrate  the  frivolity,  apathy,  or  cynical  composure  of 
the  younger  generation  than  their  words  and  their  manner  in 
the  presence  of  a  nearly  consummated  disaster. 

They  were  in  the  big  dining-room  of  the  Hill  House. 
Luncheon  was  done.  Short,  the  butler,  with  Henry  and 
Thomas,  the  two  footmen,  in  their  brown  liveries  and  canary 
collars,  was  clearing  the  table.  Peace,  repletion,  drowsiness 
were  in  the  warm  air.  Short,  putting  things  away  in  the 
great  sideboard,  and  the  footmen,  stacking  glasses  and  plates 
on  a  wooden  tray,  moved  languidly  as  dreamers  who  would 
never  awake,  and  paused  to  look  through  the  open  windows 

133 


134  HILL  RISE 

across  the  sunlit  lawn  at  two  gardeners,  who  were  amusing 
themselves  rather  than  working  with  the  pony  and  the  mow- 
ing machine. 

It  was  the  best,  the  most  quietly  noble  room  in  the  house — 
everything  about  it  old-fashioned,  old-established,  solidly  per- 
manent, from  the  double  mahogany  doors  to  the  white  busts 
on  black  pedestals,  the  deep  and  immensely  heavy  leather 
armchairs,  or  the  huge  coal-box  by  the  fireless  hearth;  and 
this  afternoon  the  room  was  as  a  temple  of  well-guarded 
repose. 

Mr.  Jack  Vincent  reclined  in  one  of  the  armchairs,  with  a 
foot  on  the  marble  jamb  of  the  fireplace.  Every  now  and 
then  he  took  the  cigarette  from  his  mouth  and  slowly  and  care- 
fully blew  rings  and  watched  them  float  upward.  He  was  in 
riding  breeches  and  continuations,  and  dress  pumps.  At 
some  time  since  his  morning  ride  he  had  evidently  attempted 
to  change  his  clothes,  but,  after  taking  off  his  gaiters  and 
boots,  had  renounced  further  effort. 

Young  Mr.  Charles  Padfield,  dressed  in  dark  flannels,  sat 
cross-legged  on  the  chair  he  had  used  at  luncheon,  and  also 
smoked  a  cigarette,  but  blew  no  rings. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Charles  lazily,  "I  must  be  off."  Then, 
without  stirring,  after  a  pause,  he  repeated  the  statement. 
"Yes,  I  must  be  off." 

Mr.  Vincent,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  did  not  take  the  least 
notice  of  his  friend's  words. 

"Sir,"  said  Short,  the  butler,  to  his  young  master,  "shall  we 
disturb  you?" 

"Eh?    What?" 

"We  want  to  arrange  the  room  for  the  meeting,  sir;"  and 
Short  waited  for  an  answer.  "If  we  begin  moving  the  furni- 
ture shall  we  interfere  with  you?" 

"If  you  do,  you'll  hear  about  it." 

Short  seemed  troubled  by  this  reply.    "But,  sir " 

"Oh,  go  on !"  and  Mr.  Vincent  laughed.    "Don't  mind  me." 

"Nor  me,"  said  Mr.  Padfield.    "I  must  be  off,  anyhow." 

Contented  with  this  permission,  Short  and  his  assistants 
pushed  the  big  table  farther  towards  the  window,  began  to 
carry  chairs  and  place  them  in  rows  behind  the  table. 


HILL  RISE  135 

"I  must  be  off,"  said  Charlie  Padfield,  "but  I  wouldn't  mind 
another  glass  of  port.  We  left  the  decanter  half-full;"  and 
he  looked  at  the  sideboard.  "Disappeared!" 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "Short  finished  that  in  his  pantry." 

Mr.  Short  stopped  working  immediately. 

"As  it  happens,  Mr.  John,  that  ball's  off  the  wicket,  sir. 
The  port  is  in  the  pantry — undrunk.  But  it  won't  be  drunk 
by  you,  Mr.  Padfield.  Her  ladyship  had  bespoken  it  for  one 
of  her  invalids.  If  you  wish  to  know  her  name " 

"I  don't." 

"Mrs.  Newboult." 

Henry,  the  younger  of  the  footmen,  here  interposed  viva- 
ciously. 

"I  wish  I  had  Mrs.  Newboult's  complaint.  On  behalf  of 
science  I  offer  myself  for  the  port-wine  cure." 

"What  you  gassing  about?"  said  Mr.  Padfield.  "No  one 
spoke  to  you." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir." 

"Short,"  said  Jack  dreamily,  "what's  the  move  now?" 

"Only  these  chairs,  sir,  and  we'll  leave  you  in  peace." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  the  meeting.  Who's  com- 
ing this  afternoon?" 

"All  the  influential  people  of  the  town,  sir." 

"Oh,  we've  had  them  before;"  and  Jack  spoke  more  and 
more  dreamily.  "Hill  Eise  is  sold.  Why  don't  they  shut 
up — own  they're  beat,  and  make  the  best  of  it?  ...  We 
are  an  effete,  played-out  aristocracy — doomed  to  extinc- 
tion." 

"Exactly,"  said  Charlie  Padfield,  "what  I  tell  my  mother : 
Make  the  best  of  it.  She  won't  own  herself  beat.  Tries  to 
believe  the  sale  was  a  trick  to  frighten  her — that  it  isn't 
sold  really." 

"That,"  said  Short  gloomily,  "was  Sir  John's  hope — all 
our  hope,  sir.  But  that  hope  was  dashed  to  the  ground  the 
day  before  yesterday.  Sir  John  had  it  direct  from  the 
solicitors." 

"Who  was  it  ?"  asked  Jack.  "The  man  in  the  red  tie  ?  The 
Governor  swears  it  was  some  fellow  in  a  red  tie." 

"The  solicitors  won't  give  the  name  till  it's  all  signed  and 


136  HILL  RISE 

delivered — but  they'll  send  on  any  offers.  That's  what  Sir 
John  has  called  the  meeting  for." 

"Short,  will  it  matter?    What's  your  own  opinion?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  think,  sir?" 

"I  don't  think  about  it." 

"Devastation,  sir,  I  call  it.  My  opinion  is  Sir  John's. 
Strain  every  nerve  to  save  something  from  the  wreck  ?" 

"What  wreck?" 

"Why,  this  house  along  with  the  rest ;"  and  Short  waved  his 
arm  towards  the  windows.  "How'll  it  be  when  you  look  out 
over  our  garden  at  the  backs  of  a  lot  of  jerry-built  villas  ?" 

"I  shan't  look.     I  shall  look  the  other  way." 

"Exactly,"  said  Charles  Padfield  again,  "what  I  tell  my 
mother.  Take  it  like  a  sportsman.  If  you're  beat,  never  let 
?em  see  you  mind."  And  with  great  deliberation  Mr.  Padfield 
aimed  his  cigarette  at  the  fireplace,  and  launched  it.  But  the 
cigarette,  not  reaching  the  mark,  fell  on  the  hearthrug. 
"Jack !"  and  Mr.  Padfield  pointed  helplessly.  "Jack !  I  say !" 

Mr.  Vincent,  without  moving  from  his  chair,  stretched  his 
right  foot  and  pulled  the  burning  cigarette  to  the  safety  of 
the  hearth. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Henry,  the  footman.  Mr.  Short  had 
left  the  room,  and  Henry,  in  the  absence  of  his  superior 
officer,  was  always  of  a  waggish  turn.  "Beg  pardon,  I'm  sure. 
That  accident  was  my  fault  for  not  bringing  you  a  ash- 
tray. If  Hill  House  had  been  burnt  down,  I  should  have  taken 
the  blame  on  myself." 

"You  talk  too  much,"  said  Mr.  Padfield.  "No  one  spoke  to 
you." 

"Henry,"  said  Jack,  "what's  your  opinion  about  Hill  Rise? 
You  are  rather  an  ass." 

"In  that  case,  sir,  my  opinion  can  be  of  little  value." 

"Let's  hear  it  for  what  it's  worth." 

"Silence,"  said  Charlie  Padfield,  "for  Henry  Budd,  an 
alleged  footman." 

Henry,  standing  by  the  table,  struck  an  attitude  and  appar- 
ently tried  to  represent  a  typical  public  speaker,  while  Thomas, 
the  other  footman,  lingered  by  the  sideboard  and  grinned 
admiringly. 


HILL  RISE  137 

"Thus  encouraged/''  said  Henry,  "I  will  rise  to  address  this 
influential  meeting.  I  will  state  the  whole  of  my  opinion, 
which  is  that  the  influential  people  of  this  town  have  made 
laughing  stocks  of  themselves.  Ever  since  June  they  have 
been  saying  what  they  would  do  next.  It  made  me  tremble 
and  perspire  to  hear  them.  They  was  going  to  eat  anybody 
as  touched  Hill  Else.  They  talked  as  big  as  giants — and  what 
has  followed?  It  has  just  been  sold  over  their  heads,  as 
though  they  were  so  many  mice.  .  .  .  Hear!  hear!  And 
loud  cheers.  Now  I  will  proceed " 

"Oh,  shut  up !"  said  Mr.  Padfield.    "You  aren't  funny." 

"P'r'aps,"  said  Henry,  "you  aren't  a  judge,  sir;"  and  he 
glanced  at  Thomas,  who  was  highly  diverted.  "I  have  the 
better  part  of  my  audience  with  me." 

Then  there  was  some  sharp  give  and  take  between  Mr. 
Padfield  and  Henry;  but  in  this  passage  of  wit  Mr.  Padfield 
was  so  clearly  worsted  that  he  became  angry,  and  with  a  red 
face  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"Impudent  ass !    Oh,  you  go  to  the  devil !" 

"Thank  you,  sir.  P'r'aps  you'll  show  me  the  way.  Gossip 
says  you're  on  the  road." 

"That'll  do,  Henry,"  said  Jack  Vincent  authoritatively ;  and 
he,  too,  rose  from  his  chair.  "Just  go  upstairs  and  fetch  my 
boots." 

Henry  was  at  once  crestfallen  and  alarmed. 

"All  right,"  continued  Jack.  "You  deserve  to  be  kicked, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  do  it.  Only  want  to  change  my  slippers. 
I'm  too  tired  to  change  my  clothes;"  and  he  yawned  and 
stretched  himself. 

"And  you,"  called  Mr.  Padfield  to  Thomas,  following  Henry 
out  of  the  room ;  "you  fetch  my  hat,  will  you  ?" 

The  boots  and  the  hat  were  soon  brought,  but  by  the  time 
they  arrived  the  energy  of  their  owners  had  subsided  again. 
Mr.  Jack  began  slowly  to  fill  his  pipe,  and  Mr.  Charles,  as 
though  in  unconscious  imitation,  began  to  fill  his.  They  were 
thus  engaged  when  Lady  Vincent  entered  the  room  from  the 
garden. 

"Your  father  not  with  you?    I  hope  he  is  resting." 

"Quietly  getting  up  steam  somewhere,"  said  Jack;  and  he 


138  HILL  RISE 

pointed  with  his  pipe  at  the  table  and  the  ranged  chairs. 
"Decks  cleared  for  action." 

"Oh,  Jack,  don't  smoke  a  pipe  in  here !  You  know  all  the 
world  is  coming." 

"All  right,"  said  Jack,  and  he  put  the  pipe  in  his  pocket. 

"'Well,  Lady  Vincent,"  said  Charlie  Padfield,  putting  his 
pipe  away,  "afraid  I  must  be  off." 

Lady  Vincent  smiled  politely. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Charles.  Give  my  love  to  your  mamma — 
but,  of  course,  I  shall  see  her  later  on." 

"Afraid  you  won't.     She's  seedy — or  thinks  she  is." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  "how  unfortunate!  We 
wanted  her  support." 

Mr.  Padfield,  sauntering  round  the  table,  had  nearly 
reached  the  window  when  Jack  called  after  him. 

"Come  back  for  the  meeting?" 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  Mr.  Padfield.  "I  don't  know;" 
and  then,  as  if  unexpectedly  sapped  of  all  initiative,  or  too 
much  fatigued  to  go  further,  he  slowly  sank  into  a  chair  by 
the  window. 

Lady  Vincent,  with  her  back  to  the  window,  was  unaware 
of  this  collapse.  She  had  turned  to  her  son,  and  her  tone 
became  more  confidential. 

"Your  father,  Jack,  is  in  a  great  state  of  mind  about  this 
meeting." 

"Is  he?"  said  Jack.  "He  always  is  about  such  things.  It 
amuses  him." 

"But  about  this  he  is  terribly  in  earnest — more  so  than  I 
ever  remember." 

"You  know,  mother — the  prevailing  idea  seems  to  be  that 
the  Governor  is  making  a  considerable  ass  of  himself." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"From  what  people  say" — and  as  Jack  lazily  continued 
speaking,  he  brought  out  his  pipe  and  groped  for  the  match- 
box behind  him  on  the  mantelpiece — "as  far  as  I  can  gather, 
the  opinion  is  this:  The  fuss  and  chatter  has  gone  on  ever 
since  June — all  talking  and  threatening  like  giants.  Don't 
know  what  the  Guv'nor  and  the  rest  weren't  going  to  do. 
Very  well;"  and  he  struck  a  match. 


HILL  RISE  139 

"Jack,  don't." 

"All  right ;"  and  he  blew  out  the  match.  "Well,  then,  what 
happens  ?  At  the  advertised  date,  Hill  Eise  is  jolly  well  sold 
over  their  heads,  as  though — as  though " 

"They  were  so  many  mice,"  said  Mr.  Padfield. 

Lady  Vincent  started  violently,  turned,  and  spoke  with 
coldness. 

"I  thought  you  were  gone." 

"Yes,  I  must  go." 

And,  as  soon  as  Lady  Vincent  had  turned  her  back  again, 
Mr.  Padfield  really  did  go.  Very  slowly  rising,  he  passed 
slowly  out  into  the  sunlight  on  the  lawn. 

"Your  father's  strong  hope  now,"  said  Lady  Vincent  seri- 
ously, "is  to  save  the  situation  by  buying  back  a  strip  of  the 
meadows — a  protecting  belt — four  or  five  acres — which  would 
really  save  us  from  the  worst.  We  should  still  have  the  best 
of  the  tennis  courts — and  space  to  breathe  in.  That,  after  all, 
is  the  essential  thing.  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Mr. 
Padfield?"  And,  looking  round,  Lady  Vincent  started. 
"He  has  gone.  .  .  .  Jack,  that  is  a  very  worthless  young 
man." 

"Yes,  isn't  he  ?    Just  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Don't  say  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  know  you  don't  mean  it,  but  it  pains  me  to  hear  you 
classing  yourself  with  these  vacant,  foolish  friends  and 
satellites." 

"Do  you  count  me  a  class  all  to  myself — unique?" 

"I  count  always  on  your  rousing  yourself — doing  great 
things  one  day." 

Jack  laughed  and  shook  his  head  good-humouredly. 

"It  is  only  that,  Jack — just  to  rouse  yourself.  Take  an 
interest  in  life — not  let  it  glide  by  you.  Be  something  more 
in  the  world  than  our  son," — and  Lady  Vincent  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm, — "our  loved  son." 

"I  am,"  said  Jack,  smiling  and  with  affected  pride.  "I  am 
an  ex-militia  officer.  Vice-president  of  the  Lawn  Tennis  and 
Croquet  Club.  Past-master  of  the  Lodge  3215  of  Freemasons. 
Also  a  Buffalo — but  I  don't  reckon  such  small  deer.  And 


140  HILL  RISE 

some  one  told  me  the  other  day  I  was  the  most  popular  man 
of  us  Hill-folk  among  all  the  townspeople." 

"The  townspeople,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  "are  beneath  con- 
tempt— false  patriots.  Your  father  finds  they  have  no  real 
backbone — wait  to  see  which  way  the  cat  jumps.  The  Mayor 
— Mr.  Lovett — on  whom  one  relied,  has  been  absolutely  inver- 
tebrate. That  architect — Mr.  Dowling — has  rendered  no 
assistance." 

"You  are  well-primed — by  the  Guv'nor." 

"Also  that  Mr.  Crunden " 

"Hedgehog  Crunden!" 

"Your  father  is  highly  incensed  with  him.  He  has  refused 
all  assistance,  and  when  invited  to  come  to-day  and  help,  even 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  replied — almost  impudently — that  he'd 
come  to  hear  the  speechmaking " 

But  Mr.  Jack  defended  the  character  of  old  Crunden.  To 
his  mind,  Mr.  Crunden  was  the  best  of  the  townies — a  good 
sort,  when  you  knew  him.  He  also  had  words  of  praise  for 
Miss  Crunden.  She  used  to  be  the  jolliest  little  child  in  the 
world ;  and  now,  he  added,  she  had  grown  into  a  very  decent- 
looking  girl. 

"Very  funny  thing,"  said  Jack.  "I've  only  just  twigged 
which  girl  is  Lizzie  Crunden.  She's  that  jolly  nice  girl  that 
wears  the  blue  frocks.  She  looks  as  nice  as  can  be — and  I 
call  it  a  beastly  shame  of  our  girls  sitting  on  her  and  snub- 
bing her " 

"I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  not  unkindly, 
"but  she  brings  it  on  herself.  She  is  pushing." 

"She  has  never  pushed  up  against  me/'  said  Jack.  "I 
haven't  spoken  to  her  for  years." 

"Why  should  you?" 

"Because  she's  an  old  friend.  I'd  have  spoken  quick  enough 
if  I  had  twigged  she  was  the  girl  in  blue." 

"I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  girl,"  said  Lady  Vincent.  "Of 
course  she  is  not  to  blame  for  her  father — and  her  position 
is  anomalous.  But  she  should  understand,  and  not  push  her- 
self where  she  isn't  expected.  Then  she  wouldn't  be  snubbed." 

"Poor  Miss  Lizzie!  I  think  our  girls  want  a  jolly  good 
snubbing  themselves;"  and  again  Jack  spoke  in  praise  of  his 


HILL  RISE  141 

humble  friends.  "Tell  Sir  John  he  is  off  the  line  about  old 
Crunden.  He  may  take  it  from  me — the  old  chap's  a  trump." 
Then,  with  a  laugh,  he  added,  "I  am  bound  to  stick  up  for 
him." 

"Why  are  you  bound  ?" 

"Oh,  we  are  brothers — Masons — to  begin  with;  and  fair's 
fair.  Mother,  I'll  tell  you.  He  lent  me  fifty  pounds  the  other 
day!" 

"Jack!" 

"I  was  in  a  hole — stuck  for  money." 

"But  why,"  asked  Lady  Vincent,  in  consternation,  "why 
didn't  you  ask  your  father  for  it?" 

"Can't  you  guess?"  said  Jack  archly. 

"He  mightn't  have  been  able?" 

"The  Governor  doesn't  like  having  his  ear  bitten." 

"But  Crunden  !     Why  did  you  ask  him  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Pure  fun.  I  wanted  to  bite  somebody's 
ear  to  that  tune.  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  Slang !" 

Lady  Vincent  nodded  her  head  earnestly. 

"I  met  the  old  chap  in  the  street.  So  I  thought :  What  a 
lark  to  try  and  bite  the  Hedgehog's  ear!  You  might  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  feather  when  he  said  yes.  He 
walked  me  straight  into  the  White  Hart  and  wrote  the  cheque 
in  exchange  for  my  I.  0.  U." 

"He  must  be  repaid  at  once." 

"Then  the  Governor's  ear  will  have  to  be  bitten  after  all." 

"That  is  your  only  course.  But  don't  upset  him  before  the 
meeting.  He  did  not  sleep  last  night."  Lady  Vincent  was 
greatly  perturbed  by  what  Jack  had  told  her.  To  her  the 
acceptance  of  a  loan  from  a  common  townsman  seemed  a 
most  dreadful  occurrence :  a  presage  or  omen  of  future  disas- 
ters arising  from  that  unhappy  taste  for  low  company.  "Jack," 
she  said,  "you  have  frightened  me.  Oh,  Jack,  pull  yourself 
together — rouse  yourself — for  my  sake." 

Jack  had  stooped  to  pick  up  his  boots.  He  stood  holding 
the  boots,  and  spoke  lightly,  but  with  great  tenderness. 

"Mother  dear,  don't  you  bother  about  me.  I'm  all  right. 
And  don't — don't  turn  against  what  is,  after  all,  the  work 
of  your  own  hands.  You  and  the  Governor  have  spoilt  me.  I 


142  HILL  RISE 

love  you  for  it.  But" — and  something  of  emotion  sounded 
beneath  the  light  tones  of  his  voice — "but — too  late  now — as 
to  what  you  say.  I  wanted  to  do  things — my  father  wouldn't 
let  me.  I  had  my  dreams — on  bright  mornings — in  spring- 
time especially.  Heard  the  whisper  in  the  east  wind — we've 
all  heard  it — even  that  old  rotter,  Charlie  Padfield:  'Wake! 
Get  up !  Put  your  boots  on !  Do  something !'  .  .  .  You — 
and  my  father — didn't  wish  it.  ...  I  turned  over  and 
slept.  .  .  .  Too  late — a  whisper  can't  wake  me  now." 

He  stood  with  a  boot  in  each  hand,  smiling  at  his  mother; 
then  sat  down  and  kicked  off  one  of  his  slippers. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  said  Lady  Vincent  piteously,  "you  distress  me 
by  saying — but,  oh,  my  dear  boy,  don't  change  your  boots  in 
here.  It  is  such  a  horrid  habit,  and  you  know  how  it  upsets 
your  father." 

"All  right;"  and  even  as  he  spoke,  Sir  John's  voice  was 
heard  outside  in  the  hall. 

"Jack !    Here  he  is.    Don't  let  him  see  them." 

"Eight-o." 

And  Jack  hastily  opened  the  large  coal-box,  put  his  boots 
inside,  and  dropped  the  flap  upon  them. 

"Don't  upset  him,"  said  Lady  Vincent.  "I'll  be  back 
directly — to  receive  the  ladies." 

Sir  John  seemed  extraordinarily  nervous  and  fussy  this 
afternoon.  Short,  who  followed,  bearing  inkstand,  papers,, 
etc.,  was  unable,  for  a  little  while,  to  satisfy  him  as  to  arrange- 
ments for  the  meeting. 

"Show  them  all  in  here,  Short,  as  soon  as  they  arrive ;  don't 
keep  'em  hanging  about.  That  chair  won't  do.  We  want  a 
bigger  chair  for  the  chairman.  .  .  .  There.  That's  better." 

"Yes,  Sir  John.  Will  you  have  the  inkstand  in  front  of  you, 
Sir  John?" 

"In  front  of  the  chairman's  place.  I  may  not  be  the  chair- 
man." 

"Surely,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  as  she  went  out  of  the  room, 
"that  goes  without  saying — in  your  own  house." 

"Well,  perhaps.  Matter  of  form,  but — Short,  another  ink- 
stand. And  the  sketch  maps.  The  sketch  maps." 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 


HILL  RISE 

At  last  Short  had  put  the  table  in  order,  and  father  and 
son  were  left  together.  Sir  John  was  still  nervously  fussing, 
giving  finishing  touches,  moving  an  inkstand  two  inches  to 
the  right,  smoothing  a  blotting  pad.  His  son,  jingling  money 
or  keys  in  a  trouser  pocket,  had  a  friendly,  tolerant  smile  as 
he  watched  him  fussing. 

"Well,  Sir  John!  Beady  for  the  fray?  Thirsting  after 
their  plebeian  blood  ?" 

"Don't  call  me  Sir  John,"  said  his  father  irritably,  and 
then  he  made  plaintive  appeal.  "Jack,  don't  chaff  to-day. 
'  This  is  serious — infernally  serious." 

"For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  see  it's  so  bad." 

"You  don't  understand;"  and  Sir  John,  as  he  turned  from 
the  table,  showed  a  face  that  was  almost  haggard. 

"I  understand,"  said  Jack,  "it's  a  gone  coon — the  whole 
thing.  .  .  .  But  does  that  matter  to  us  so  much  ?  You  have 
all  your  own  ground  to  ward  off  intruders." 

"I  tell  you,  you  don't  understand." 

"No,  but  I'm  trying  to." 

"I  make  no  secret.  If  I  can't  get  my  new  scheme  through" 
— and  Sir  John  glanced  round  as  though  to  make  sure  they 
were  quite  alone — "I  shall  be  utterly  done.  I  know  it  was  that 
fellow  in  the  red  tie — pig  of  a  fellow  he  looked — and  if  he 
won't  treat  with  us,  and  we  can't  raise  funds  to  buy  back  some 
of  the  land — well,  this  place  is  ruined,  and  I  am  done." 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  why  not  sell  it — for  what 
it  will  fetch — and  buy  another  place  ?  The  world  is  large." 

Sir  John  sat  down  in  the  chairman's  seat,  and,  with  averted 
eyes,  busied  himself  in  dividing  the  little  pile  of  sketch 
maps. 

"Jack,  I'll  not  make  a  secret  of  it — any  longer.  I  couldn't 
sell  the  place." 

"Why  not?    It's  freehold." 

"Yes;  but  it's  mortgaged." 

"Mortgaged?" 

"Up  to  the  hilt,  as  they  say — over  the  hilt,  as  it  now 
appears." 

Jack  came  to  the  table,  and  sat  down  facing  the  chairman. 

"Jack,  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  have  muddled  things — 


144  HILL  RISE 

financially.  But  this  sale — coming  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue — 
was  unexpected." 

"Bolts  from  the  blue  generally  are — unexpected." 

"It  has  fairly  put  me  in  the  cart.  All  I  wanted  was 
time." 

"Time  for  what?" 

"To  pull  straight,  my  dear  fellow.  I'll  make  no  more 
secrets,  Jack.  I  have  muddled  things.  When  I  effected  this 
mortgage,  I  pulled  myself  straight  for  the  time — but  only  for 
the  time.  Of  course,  at  the  back  of  my  mind,  there  was  poor 
cousin  Harriet.  Something  that  must  come — sooner  or 
later." 

"But  cousin  Harriet  has  taken  her  time." 

"Exactly.  Heaven  knows  I  wouldn't  wish  any  one's  time  to 
be  cut  short.  But  when  a  poor  soul  has  lost  the  use  of  hands, 
feet,  brain — it  would  be  a  mercy." 

"And,  may  I  ask,  how  long  have  you  been  outrunning  the 
constable  ?" 

"Years  and  years.  The  mortgage  was  to  clean  the  slate, 
and  start  fresh.  And,  you  see,  it  was  such  a  splendid  mort- 
gage. There's  the  pinch — don't  you  see?" 

"I  can't  quite  follow." 

"Well,  I  didn't  muddle  that.  I  really  got  too  much.  No 
margin— don't  you  know.  The  moment  their  security  was 
threatened  by  this  sale,  they  had  a  revaluation — and  told  me  if 
Hill  Rise  went  to  the  builders,  they  must  have  their  money, 
or  foreclose.  ...  So  now"  said  Sir  John,  with  a  kind  of 
pallid,  gloomy  triumph,  "you  understand  why  I  took  the  thing 
up  so  strongly." 

"Yes,  I  understand  now." 

"I've  been  at  'em  hammer  and  tongs  to  give  me  time. 
That's  all  I  want.  It  would  come  right  in  the  end." 

"Would  it?" 

"Well,  cousin  Harriet  can't  last  forever.  That  would  set 
me  really  straight.  Even  now,  I  can  rub  on  if  things  work 
out  this  afternoon.  I've  settled  it  with  the  mortgagee's  solici- 
tors that  if  we  can  obtain  what  I  call  a  protecting  belt,  they'll 
postpone  foreclosure — for  a  time  at  least." 

"But  if  not?" 


HILL  RISE  145 

"They  must  reluctantly  act  on  their  valuer's  report.  Most 
damaging  report — they  showed  it  to  me." 

"And  then?" 

"It's  all  U.  P.    Jack,  I  make  no  secret  of  that." 

"Well  I'm  hanged;"  and  Jack  laughed  somewhat  bitterly. 
"Dead  broke !  Just  when  I  wanted  to  bite  your  ear." 

"What  for?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  But  I  say — do  you  mind  my  asking  ?  How 
on  earth  have  you  got  through  your  money  ?" 

"Keeping  up  appearances.  I  think  you  are  quite  right  to 
ask.  But  don't  trot  away  with  the  idea  that  I  have  been — 
er — playing  the  fool — in  any  way.  Oh,  no.  Just  that — our 
position  in  the  world.  Not  to  drop  it." 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  and  Jack  got  up  and  walked  away  from 
the  table.  "Keeping  up  appearances — as  rulers  of  Hill  House 
— astonishing  the  world  with  the  magnificence  of  old  Short 
and  Henry  and  Thomas ;"  and  he  laughed  again.  "Our  posi- 
tion! Who  knows,  who  cares — outside  this  stupid  town? 
Who  has  ever  heard  of  us  ?" 

"Don't  take  it  like  that." 

It  was  curious  how  gradually  the  manner  of  Mr.  Jack  had 
changed.  His  voice  became  firmer,  harder,  deeper  of  tone; 
his  careless  smiles  had  gone ;  he  laughed  shortly  and  abruptly. 
Yet,  in  his  few  reproaches,  there  was  no  real  unkindness. 
It  was  all  as  between  old  comrades. 

"Well,  father,  you  have  sold  me.  I  can't  help  saying  it — 
you've  made  a  fool  of  me." 

"But  not  intentionally.    I  confess  I  have  muddled  things." 

"You  have  trained  me  as  a  fine  gentleman,  with  this  up  your 
sleeve — and  now  I'm  useless.  .  .  .  And  I  liked  work  really — 
always  admired  work — would  have  worked  if  I'd  been  given 
work  to  do.  But  you  stopped  me — in  all  my  ideas.  Now, 
what  the  deuce  shall  I  do?  What — the  deuce — am  I  to  do?" 

"If — if  put  to  it.  Only  a  suggestion !  I  hate  the  notion  of 
it,  Jack.  You  might  do  what  the  dukes  do:  look  about  and 
marry  for  money — even  beneath  you." 

"There  won't  be  any  one  beneath  me  when  I'm  in  the 
gutter." 

"Don't  take  it  like  that." 


146  HILL  RISE 

"Anyhow,  I  couldn't  do  it — even  to  get  out  of  the  gutter." 

"No ;"  and  Sir  John  studied  his  son's  face  anxiously.  "You 
wouldn't  have  lent  yourself  to  any  alternative  of  that  kind — a 
mercenary  marriage?" 

"No." 

"I  was  quite  sure  you  wouldn't.  Well,  I  shall  fight  for  my 
scheme;"  and  Sir  John  picked  up  his  pile  of  small  sheets 
and  carefully  distributed  them  round  the  table. 

"The  mater?"  asked  Jack  suddenly.  "Is  her  income  all 
free?  Her  seven  hundred  a  year,  or  whatever  it  is — is  that 
entirely  free?" 

"No,"  said  Sir  John,  without  looking  round.  "No,  Jack. 
No — confound  it.  We  are  living  on  that." 

"Well,"  said  Jack  firmly,  "if  the  smash  comes,  and  upon 
my  honour  it  seems  likely,  it  means" — very  firmly — "my 
putting  on  my  boots ;"  and  he  stared  resolutely  at  the  coal-box. 

"What's  that?" 

"I'll  relieve  you  of  one  burden.    I'll  go." 

"Your  mother,"  said  Sir  John,  very  busy  with  the  little 
sheets,  "your  mother  wouldn't  dream  of  it.  I  implore 
vou " 

"No.  I  won't  stay  and  sponge  on  you  and  the  mater  any 
more." 

"Sponge !    My  dear  fellow !" 

"But  what  the  deuce  shall  I  do?  By  the  way,  does  the 
mater  know  the  state  of  the  case?" 

"Not  a  word  of  it." 

"You've  sold  her  as  well  as  me  ?"  and  Jack  laughed.  "What 
a  lot  of  selling,  to  be  sure.  Hill  Rise — the  dear  old  mater — 
and  me!  Jolly  well  sold!" 

"Jack — you  take  it — the  surprise — like  a  good  pal?" 

"That's  all  right,  father;"  and  Jack  came  to  the  table  and 
laid  a  friendly  hand  on  Sir  John's  back.  "I'm  off  to  change 
my  breeches.  Hark!  Here  they  come.  A  bold  face  on  it. 
Never  say  die." 

Then  Jack  briskly  retired,  and  almost  immediately  Short 
flung  wide  the  mahogany  doors  and  announced  first-comers. 

"Mr.  Garrett,  Mr.  Hope — Mr.  Holland,  Mr.  Hopkins,  Mr. 
Eaton,  Mr.  Brown " 


HILL  RISE  147 

In  a  very  little  while  it  seemed  that,  responding  to  Sir 
John's  invitation,  the  whole  of  Medford  had  assembled — at 
least,  all  that  was  best  and  most  representative  seemed  already 
to  be  here;  and  yet  Short  without  intermission  continued  to 
announce  important  people.  The  footmen  were  ushering  in 
less  important  folk  through  the  French  windows;  and  soon, 
from  the  windows  to  the  table,  that  side  of  the  room  was 
blocked  so  that  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  could  one 
thread  one's  way  through  the  crowd.  Soon  the  buzz  of  con- 
versation was  so  strong  that  Short,  really  bellowing  names, 
could  scarce  make  himself  heard. 

"Major  and  Mrs.  Meldew — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Annendale.  Miss 

Annendale — Mrs.  and  Miss  Granville — Miss  Wace ,"  etc., 

etc. 

The  ladies  in  their  garden-party  costumes  gave  brightness 
and  animation  to  the  scene.  Lady  Vincent  took  entire  charge 
of  the  ladies,  marshalling  them  on  seats  of  honour  between  the 
fireplace  and  the  head  of  the  table,  making  every  one  welcome, 
and  attending  to  everybody's  comfort.  Thus  on  the  arrival 
of  old  Mrs.  Padfield,  tremendously  grand  in  vast  bonnet  and 
black  silk  gown,  but  much  overcome  by  the  heat,  Lady  Vin- 
cent gave  her  a  paper  fan,  and,  taking  her  through  the  crowd, 
found  her  a  seat  close  to  the  table  but  within  reach  of  the 
fresh  air  from  the  windows.  The  Hill  Eise  girls  came  in  such 
force  that  her  ladyship  was  soon  obliged  to  let  them  take  care 
of  themselves ;  she  had  all  her  work  with  their  mammas. 

Sir  John  attended  to  the  men  only,  and  indeed  his  task  was 
no  light  one.  Here  were  Town  and  Hill  mingling,  trades- 
men and  gentry  side  by  side,  incongruous  elements  fused  by 
Sir  John's  command;  tact  and  skill  were  sorely  needed  from 
the  very  first.  Sir  John,  bustling  from  group  to  group,  had 
genial  looks,  cheerful  words,  amicable  hand-grips  for  one  and 
all.  In  these  busy  moments  before  the  real  business  could 
begin,  he  was  quite  himself — the  great  Sir  John  of  Hill 
House,  a  born  leader  of  men,  saying  the  right  thing  with- 
out apparent  thought  as  if  by  a  splendid  instinct. 

If  one  might  judge  from  scraps  of  talk  here  and  there  about 
the  room,  Sir  John's  last  appeal  had  been  well  received  by 
the  Town.  It  was  distinctly  a  modest  scheme ;  there  could  not 


148  HILL  RISE 

be  much  to  pay ;  perhaps  the  Hill  meant  to  put  up  most  of  the 
money.  The  High  Street  tradesmen  especially  appeared  to 
countenance  the  proposal,  and  even  to  be  willing  to  bear  their 
part  of  the  cost.  In  talk,  at  any  rate,  Sir  John  had  a  large 
support. 

"Mr.  Bowling,"  roared  Short.  "Mrs.  Page — Colonel  Beau- 
mont." 

Sir  John,  passing  from  one  knot  of  talkers  to  another,  had 
been  buttonholed  by  Mr.  Hope,  the  editor. 

"Did  you,"  asked  Mr.  Hope,  "see  the  Advertiser  this  morn- 
ing— the  leading  article  ?" 

"Yes.    Invaluable.    Just  at  the  right  moment." 

"I  have,"  said  Mr.  Hope,  also  buttonholing  Mr.  Garrett, 
"I  think  I  have  worked  up  the  indignation  steadily.  The  in- 
dignation is  now  very  great.  You  have  the  town  now  solid 
at  your  back." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Garrett,  "is  a  comfortable  feeling." 

Then  Colonel  Beaumont  came  blundering,  calling  for  all 
Sir  John's  tact. 

"Vincent,"  said  the  Colonel,  "I  trust  you  have  excluded  all 
those  newspaper  fellows." 

"Tscht !     Tscht !"  said  Sir  John. 

"I  am  here,"  said  Mr.  Hope  warmly.  "I  am  here,  Colonel 
Beaumont — the  Editor  of  the  Advertiser" 

"To  whom  we  are  greatly  indebted,"  said  Sir  John. 

"Oh,  ah — that  may  be,"  said  Colonel  Beaumont.  "But  it 
was  agreed — a  private  meeting." 

"Say  no  more,"  cried  Mr.  Hope.    "I  shall  withdraw " 

"Not  for  worlds,"  said  Sir  John;  and,  looking  round,  he 
raised  his  voice.  "Gentlemen,  I  will  explain — our  proceedings 
are  private  and  confidential.  But  Mr.  Hope  is  present — by 
special  invitation — and  he  will  give  such  notice  in  the  press  as 
he  thinks  discreet  and  proper." 

"We  can  trust  Mr.  'Ope,"  said  Councillor  Holland. 

"Yes,"  said  Alderman  Hopkins,  "we're  safe  with  Mr. 
'Ope." 

"Exactly,"  said  Sir  John.  "We  may  give  all  our  thoughts 
freely." 

People  were  still  coming  in.     Short  announced  in  quick 


HILL  RISE  149 

succession,  Mrs.  Ridgworth,  Mr.  0  shorn,  Mr.  Rogers.  Sir 
John  looked  at  his  watch,  made  his  way  to  the  table,  and 
seated  himself  in  the  chairman's  place. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  the  solicitor,  loudly 
and  distinctly  to  a  neighbour,  "who  is  to  be  in  the 
chair  ?" 

Sir  John  rose  hastily  and  moved  away  from  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "ladies  and  gentlemen,  our  first 
duty  must  be  to  elect  a  chairman.  I  have  called  you  together 
— but "  and  he  looked  round  at  his  friends. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Garrett  suavely,  "I  pro- 
pose that  Sir  John  take  the  chair." 

"I  'ave  pleasure,"  said  Councillor  Holland,  "in  seconding 
that  proposal."  Then,  glancing  at  the  show  of  hands :  "Car- 
ried, I  think " 

"Unanimously,"  said  Mr.  Garrett. 

"Thank  you;"  and  Sir  John  went  back  to  the  chairman's 
place  and  stood  by  it.  "Now,  if  you  will  be  seated,"  and  he 
pulled  out  his  watch  again.  "A  quarter  to  four !  But  I  think 
we  should  give  a  little  law  before  getting  to  work." 

"Dr.  Blake,"  announced  Short. 

"Come  to  the  table,  Dr.  Blake.  As  I  was  saying,  we  will 
give  five  minutes  law,  and  meantime  I  will  ask  you  to  examine 
the  detailed  plan — and  I  will  read  you  one  or  two  letters." 

"Mr.  Crunden — and  Miss  Crunden." 

"Ah,  how  do,  Crunden  ?  Very  glad  to  see  you  here ;"  and  Sir 
John,  turning,  bowed  politely  to  Miss  Crunden ;  and  then  sat 
down. 

The  ladies  were  now  all  established  on  the  seats  allotted  to 
them.  No  chair  was  vacant  for  Miss  Crunden  in  this  part  of 
the  room.  She  stood  near  the  Hill  Rise  girls — near  them  but 
not  of  them — embarrassed,  hesitating,  while  her  father  worked 
himself  through  the  seated  men.  Her  face  was  tanned  by 
Cornish  air  and  sun,  but  she  blushed  through  the  sunburn  as 
Lady  Vincent  spoke  to  her. 

"We  are  pleased,"  said  Lady  Vincent  graciously,  but  show- 
ing some  surprise,  "to  see  you  also,  Miss  Crunden.  So  good 
of  you  to  take  an  interest." 

"Oh,  Miss  Crunden,"  said  Miss  Annendale,  drawling,  "is 


150  HILL  RISE 

that  you?  I  didn't  recognise  you — for  the  moment — not  ex- 
pecting to  see  you  here." 

"Quite  a  monster  meeting,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Miss  Granville. 

But  at  this  moment,  while  Sir  John  opened  more  letters 
brought  in  by  Short,  the  attention  of  the  Hill  Eise  young 
ladies  was  diverted  from  Miss  Crunden  to  a  personage  of  the 
highest  social  distinction.  Mr.  Jack  had  come  in.  Mr.  Jack 
had  changed  his  clothes.  He  was  now  in  a  blue  serge  suit, 
but  he  still  wore  his  dress  pumps.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  change  these,  because  he  had  omitted  to  retrieve  his  boots 
from  their  hiding-place  in  the  coal-box. 

"Mr.  Vincent/'  called  one  of  the  Hill  Eise  girls,  "come  and 
sit  by  us." 

"Do,  Mr.  Vincent,"  called  another. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Jack,  nodding  rather  gravely  at  them, 
"I  should  spoil  the  picture.  You  all  look  so  nice." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Annendale.  "This  is  the  ladies'  gal- 
lery, but  you  may  come  if  you  behave  yourself." 

Then  Mr.  Jack  did  come  across  the  room;  but,  to  the  un- 
mitigated disgust  of  the  young  ladies,  it  was  only  to  talk 
to  Miss  Crunden. 

"Mr.  Vincent,"  said  Miss  Annendale,  leaning  forward  in 
her  chair,  "we'll  make  room  for  you.  You  won't  spoil 
the  picture." 

But  Mr.  Vincent  had  turned  his  broad  back  to  the  ladies' 
gallery,  and  he  chose  henceforth  to  ignore  it.  Perhaps,  ren- 
dered thoughtful  by  recent  disclosures,  he  was  not  in  a  mood 
for  badinage  with  the  best  society.  Or  perhaps  he  quickly 
understood  that  poor  Miss  Crunden  was  being  snubbed  be- 
cause she  had  once  more  pushed  herself  where  she  was  not 
expected,  and  as  quickly  determined  that  she  should  be 
given  all  his  smiles  to  console  her  for  the  cold  looks  of 
others.  » 

"Miss  Lizzie !"  he  cried,  and  Miss  Lizzie  bowed  slightly  and 
stiffly.  "Miss  Lizzie,  don't  you  know  me?  Won't  you  know 
me?"  and  she  was  obliged,  very  shyly,  to  shake  hands  with 
him.  "Where  are  you  going  to  sit?  How  jolly — your 
coming." 

"My  father  forced  me  to  come.    I  didn't  want  to  come." 


HILL  RISE  151 

Miss  Lizzie  was  painfully  constrained  and  nervous  in 
manner. 

"You  didn't  know/'  said  Jack,  smiling  now  gaily,  "you  were 
going  to  meet  me — a  real  old  friend — and  old  playmate;" 
and  he  looked  at  the  ladies'  gallery  without  seeming  to 
see  it. 

"Let  me  find  you  a  seat,  and  let  me  have  the  honour — and 
the  pleasure — of  sitting  by  you.  We  can  talk  about  old  times 
in  the  intervals  of  business.  There," — and  he  nodded, — "over 
there,  we  can  be  out  of  everybody's  way." 

Then  he  steered  Miss  Crunden  over  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  where  her  father  was  standing,  and  grimly  beckon- 
ing to  her.  By  the  weight  of  Jack's  personal  prestige,  chairs 
were  somehow  procured  for  the  three  of  them. 

"Do  you  remember  our  games?" 

Mr.  Jack  had  said  he  would  talk  in  the  intervals  of  busi- 
ness, but  he  talked,  or  whispered  confidentially,  even  when  his 
papa  was  reciting  momentous  letters.  Mr.  Crunden  frowned 
upon  him;  Miss  Crunden  answered  him  shyly,  hesitatingly, 
coldly;  but  still  for  a  little  while  he  talked. 

"Miss  Lizzie — remember  our  games  in  the  garden?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"No?  You  were  the  pirate's  wife — I  was  the  pirate — and 
poor  old  Dick  was  the  Eoyal  Navy." 

"Was  he?" 

"You  remember  our  acting?  Don't  say  you've  forgotten 
that  famous  drama.  I  began — 'with  hand  upon  his  heart';" 
and  Jack  suited  the  action  to  the  words — "  'Madam,  to  you 
I  humbly  bow  and  bend.'  That  was  your  cue.  Don't  you 
remember  ?" 

"It  was  so  long  ago.     I'm  afraid  I've  quite  forgotten." 

"How's  old  What's-her-name  ?"  whispered  Jack.  "Hope 
she's  going  strong.  Pricey!  How's  Pricey-picey ?" 

But  here  Jack's  whisper,  together  with  the  chairman's  re- 
cital, was  drowned  by  unseemly  noise  from  the  background  of 
the  audience.  It  was  apparent  now  that  the  less  important 
people  in  front  of  the  windows  had  come  for  amusement  as 
much  as  for  business.  There  was  a  slight  disposition  to  tu- 
mult caused  by  the  selfish  efforts  of  young  Mr.  Padfield,  who 


152  HILL  RISE 

had  squeezed  in  at  the  window,  and  was  seeking  to  secure  a 
lofty  perch  for  himself  by  sitting  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

'"Ere — 'old  'ard.    Thank  you  for  nothing." 

"All  right.  Others  want  to  see  same  as  you.  Push  'im 
over/' 

From  this  point  the  business  of  the  meeting  suffered  from 
occasional  noise.  Loud  voices  several  times  interrupted  rudely, 
and  the  interruptions  were  greeted  with  hoarse  laughter. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  continued  Sir  John:  "Letters  of  regret 
from  the  Mayor.  From  Admiral  Lardner  of  No.  11 — who 
regrets  he  is  travelling  for  his  health — in  the  Tyrol;  who 
would  certainly  be  here — but  he  is  a  thousand  miles  away. 
From  Captain  Sholto,  No.  4,  who  is  confined  to  his  bed,  and 
wishes  every  success.  And  also  from  Mrs.  Padfield " 

"Eh!"  said  Dr.  Blake.     "What?" 

"No.  7 — who  is  overcome  by  the  recent  heat ;  but  Mrs.  Pad- 
field  is  with  us  in  spirit." 

"I  am  with  you  in  person,"  said  old  Mrs.  Padfield,  draw- 
ing her  chair  nearer  to  Dr.  Blake's  elbow,  and  fanning  her- 
self. 

"Capital !    You  have  made  an  effort." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Padfield  stoutly,  "and  I  mean  to  make  a 
speech,  too." 

"Well,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  may  safely  assert  that  this 
is  an  influential  and  a  representative  assembly.  The  Town 
Council — Mr.  Hopkins,  Mr.  Holland;"  and  Sir  John  bowed 
and  gave  a  sweep  of  the  hand.  "'Public  opinion — Mr.  Hope. 
Hill  Rise — every  leaseholder  of  one  mind.  You  have  studied 
the  small  sketch  map  which  I  sent  you,  and  you  no  doubt 
grasp  the  scheme.  The  green  strip  will  save  us.  Four  acres, 
three  roods,  and  thirty-eight  rods,  poles,  or  perches " 

"Never  mind  the  perches,"  called  a  voice. 

"But  take  care  of  the  poles,"  said  another  voice;  and  there 
was  much  hoarse  laughter. 

"Say  five  acres — thereabouts.  The  situation  is  desperate — 
I  make  no  secret.  But  we  can  snatch  this  from  the  fire. 
Surely,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  such  a  case  there  will  be  no 
difficulty  in  raising  the  money.  That  is  our  only  difficulty.  I 
am  sure  if  we  make  application  to  buy  back  five  acres " 


HILL  RISE  153 

"But  where  do  we  apply?" 

"The  Estate  Solicitors.  I  have  their  letter  before  me.  They 
still  hold  back  the  owner's  name — till  the  purchase  is  com- 
pleted and  the  conveyance  signed.  But  they  will  promptly 
put  us  in  touch  if  we  have  a  definite  proposal." 

"Some  bloated  London  Syndicate,"  said  Alderman  Hop- 
kins, "trying  to  destroy  our  town,  I  suppose." 

"One  of  these  Land  Companies/'  said  Councillor  Hol- 
land. 

"I  would  like  to  say," — and  Dr.  Blake  rose, — "as  a  medical 
man  as  well  as  a  resident  in  Hill  Kise,  that  I  consider  this 
open  space  most  important;  to  sterilize  germs,  and  to  avoid 
unpleasing  and  dangerous  odours.  If  you  are  to  have  here  a 
congeries  of  stuffy  houses,  one  hundred  yards  of  unimpeded 
air  will,  in  my  opinion,  be  essential " 

Old  Crunden  was  now  guilty  of  unseemly  interruption.  He 
gave  so  loud  and  scornful  a  snort  that  many  people  laughed 
again,  and  all  near  him  turned  round  to  see  who  had  made 
the  noise.  The  chairman  looked  across  the  room  at  him,  as 
if  to  inquire  whether  he  wished  to  speak;  but  Mr.  Crunden 
sat  with  clasped  hands  and  lowered  eyes,  as  though  uncon- 
scious that  he  had  disturbed  anybody. 

"Quite  essential,"  said  Dr.  Blake,  resuming  his  seat,  "in 
my  opinion." 

"I,"  said  Mrs.  Padfield,  pulling  her  chair  still  closer  to 
the  table,  "will  subscribe  fifty  pounds";  and  there  was  some 
applause. 

"Bravo !"  cried  Sir  John.  "Bravo !  You  have  opened  the 
ball,  my  dear  madam." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Padfield,  looking  about  her  resolutely,  "but 
I'll  tell  the  gentlemen  of  the  Town — Corporation — or  what- 
ever you  are — I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you.  I  don't  know 
which  you  are " 

"I  am  Mr.  'Opkins." 

"Alderman  Hopkins."  explained  Sir  John. 

"I  am  Mr.  'Olland — and  there's  Mr.  Ope,  too.  All  three  of 
us  on  the  Council." 

"And  I,"  said  Mr.  Eaton  facetiously,  "mean  to  be  on  it." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Eaton,  and  we  mean  to  have  you  on  it." 


154  HILL  RISE 

"Well,  then/'  said  Mrs.  Padfield,  "Mr.  Hopkins,  Mr.  Hol- 
land, Mr.  Hope,  and  you,  Mr.  Heaton " 

"Eaton,"  called  a  rude  voice,  "not  Heaton.  Don't  waste 
an  H.  They're  short  of  them  on  the  Council." 

"Mind  your  own  business,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  in  anger. 

"Order,  please,"  said  the  Chairman  deprecatingly. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.  Padfield,  "what  your  names  are, 
but  I  tell  you  to  your  faces,  it's  you  have  brought  this  trouble 
on  us " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Padfield " 

"I  pay  rates  and  taxes  and  I'm  entitled  to  speak.  The  rates 
are  outrageous.  You  seem  to  think  you  can  do  just  as  you 
like  in  your  ugly  Town  Hall — and  we  gentlefolk  are  to  be 
taxed  out  of  existence " 

"This,"  said  Alderman  Hopkins,  "is  an  indictment- 


"You  go  on  adding  your  pennies  to  the  Income  Tax " 

"The  Town  is  not  responsible  for  the  Income  Tax " 

"Yes,  it  is." 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Councillor  Holland,  "I  protest " 

"And  I  have  to  pay.    But  have  I  a  vote  ?    No." 

"Yes,  you  'ave." 

"I  say  I  have  not.     And  how  dare  you  contradict  me  ?" 

"You  are  represented  in  municipal  affairs,  and  if  you  don't 
vote " 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Sir  John.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Padfield. 
Gently,  I  beseech  you." 

Councillor  Holland  was  fuming  wrathfully. 

"I  never  'card  such  'umbug." 

"Be  this  as  it  may,"  said  Sir  John.  "Surely — surely  we 
are  wandering  from  the  point.  Do  let  us  keep  to  the  point." 

"What  is  the  point  ?"  asked  blundering  Colonel  Beaumont. 

"May  I?"  said  Mr.  Garrett,  and  he  arose  to  take  control 
of  the  meeting.  As  a  retired  solicitor,  he  was  of  course  accus- 
tomed to  public  speaking;  his  voice  was  suave,  and  he  looked 
most  dignified  standing  at  the  chairman's  side,  holding  a  paper 
in  one  hand  and  a  gold  pencil  case  in  the  other.  "Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  have  pleasure  in  subscribing  another  fifty 
pounds,"  and  again  there  was  applause.  "Moreover,  in  the 
few  minutes  since  Mrs.  Padfield's  generous  announcement,  I 


HILL  RISE  155 

have  obtained  conditional  promises  for  a  further  four  hun- 
dred. Eeally  it  is  an  investment  as  well  as  a  safeguard — if 
we  can  secure  these  five  acres  at  a  moderate  figure — and  I  see 
no  reason  why  the  new  owners  should  not  meet  us  fairly — at 
the  market  price." 

"If  it's  a  London  Company,"  said  Alderman  Hopkins, 
"they'll  blackmail  us." 

"Do  not  let  us  conjure  up  bogies.  Gentlemen,  with  the 
handsome  response  already  received — I  take  it  on  myself  to 
say  that  the  money  will  be  forthcoming." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Eaton,  "is  a  bit  strong." 

"We  feel  strong  because  we  have  the  whole  town  at  our 
backs." 

"Hear,  hear !"  said  Mr.  Hope. 

"And  I  propose,"  continued  Mr.  Garrett,  with  persuasive 
blandness,  "that  we  open  negotiations  without  delay.  I  would 
suggest  that  we  forthwith  appoint  and  depute  a  committee  of, 
say,  two  or  three  influential  men — and,  if  you  wish,  myself — 
to  make  a  conditional  offer " 

"I  shall  be  glad,"  said  Sir  John,  "to  assist  on  the  Com- 
mittee." 

"I,"  said  Mr.  Hopkins,  "propose  Mr.  'Olland." 

"I,"  said  Mr.  Holland,  "propose  Mr.  'Opkins." 

"I  propose  Heaton,"  said  a  rude  voice. 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  serve,"  said  Mr.  Eaton. 

"Put  it  from  the  chair." 

"Very  good;"  and  Sir  John  hurriedly  obeyed.  "Shall  we 
say — Mr.  Garrett,  Colonel  Beaumont,  Mr. — er — Holland — 
and  myself  ?" 

"I  second  that,"  said  Colonel  Beaumont. 

"Those  in  favour  will  kindly" — and  Sir  John  looked  round 
at  the  lifted  hands — "thank  you.  Against?  Yes — I  think, 
carried " 

"Nem.  Con.,"  said  Mr.  Garrett,  still  standing. 

"There's  three  Hill  men  to  one  Town,"  Mr.  Eaton  ob- 
jected. 

"Well,  then,"  Sir  John  went  on  eagerly,  "we  empower  them 
to  treat  with  the  vendors " 

"May  I  ?"  said  Mr.  Garrett,  with  great  suavity.    "It  remains 


156  HILL  RISE 

to  discuss  the  price  we  are  prepared — conditionally,  of  course 
— to  give.  It  is  back  ground  fortunately — without  frontage — 
but  they  will  no  doubt  call  it  building  land." 

"It  is  building  land,"  said  Mr.  Dowling. 

"In  a  sense — yes.  Here  your  expert  knowledge  will  aid  us, 
Mr.  Dowling.  Shall  we  be  far  wrong  if  we  estimate  the 
value  at  fifteen  hundred,  and  offer  that  price?" 

"I  am  quite  unable  to  say." 

"Three  hundred  an  acre,  Mr.  Dowling?  That  to  three- 
fifty,  eh?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"But  you  must  know — as  an  architect,  you  must  be  able 
to  give  an  expert  opinion." 

"I  prefer  not  to  give  my  opinion — in  this  case." 

"Keally  ?  That  is  odd,"  and  Mr.  Garrett  paused.  "Surely 
somewhat  odd?" 

But  Mr.  Dowling  only  looked  up  at  the  vaulted  ceiling, 
and  remained  silent  while  Mr.  Garrett  again  paused. 

Then  Mr.  Crunden  grunted,  and  rose  from  his  far-off 
chair. 

"I  think,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  can  save  waste  of  time.  Your 
committee  will  fail.  The  land  won't  be  sold  to  you." 

Everybody  had  turned  and  was  looking  at  him,  but  he  was 
looking  straight  across  the  room  at  Sir  John  and  at  no  one 
else. 

"Won't  be  sold?" 

"No.    Not  at  your  price." 

"But,  Mr.  Crunden,"  asked  Sir  John  anxiously,  "are  you 
empowered  to  say  that?  Do  you  really  know  the  views  of 
the  owner?" 

"Yes." 

"What  price,  then?" 

"Twenty-five  thousand  pounds." 

Cries  of  "Oh!  Oh!"  "Absurd!"  "Ridiculous,"  were  suc- 
ceeded by  a  deep  murmur,  and  then  there  was  silence  again. 

"Do  you  speak  authoritatively — for  the  owner?" 

"I  am  the  owner." 

"That  is  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Dowling.  "Purchase  completed 
at  noon  to-day." 


HILL  RISE  157 

"Ha,  ha,"  said  Mr.  Jack  Vincent,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Then  it  wasn't  the  man  in  the  red  tie." 

The  room  was  filled  with  a  growing  murmur.  People,  turn- 
ing to  one  another,  talked  rapidly. 

"Oh,  oh !"  said  many  voices.  "Shame !"  said  a  single  voice. 
"Blackmail !"  said  another  voice.  "Oh,  oh,  oh."  Then  a  voice 
from  the  windows  came  loud  and  strong:  "Hedgehog  Crun- 
den !" 

"Mr.  Crunden,"  said  Alderman  Hopkins  impressively,  "you 
can't  be  in  earnest.  You  can't  wish  to  profit  by  the  Town's 
difficulty." 

"You  can't  fly  in  the  face  of  public  opinion,"  said  Mr. 
Hope. 

"It  would  be  a  shabby,  disgraceful  trick,"  said  Colonel 
Beaumont.  And  the  voices  made  a  noisy  chorus : 

"Blackmail !  Blackmail !  Shame !  Name  a  fair  price ! 
Don't  be  a  'Edgehog !" 

"Gently,  gently,  please!"  cried  Sir  John,  endeavouring  to 
keep  order.  "Mr.  Crunden,  may  we  hope  you  are  joking  ?" 

"You  will  reconsider,"  pleaded  Mr.  Garrett,  with  urgent 
suavity.  "We  appeal  to  you  to  help  us." 

"For  the  sake  of  the  Town?"  said  Alderman  Hopkins.  "I 
appeal  to  you  in  the  name  of  the  Town.  Don't  forget  what 
you  owe  to  the  Town." 

"No,"  said  old  Crunden  loudly  and  harshly.  "Be  dashed 
to  the  Town.  I  owe  the  Town  nothing;"  and  once  more  the 
chorus  of  voices  broke  out.  But  amidst  hisses,  cries  of 
"shame,"  etc.,  he  went  on  speaking.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  his  effort  to  make  himself  heard,  and  how  the  effort  suc- 
ceeded. His  face  had  flushed;  his  clenched  hand  shook;  his 
voice  was  harsh  and  strained ;  but  he  was  heard  now  in  silence, 
till  with  culminating  force  he  reached  his  last  words.  "I  owe 
the  Town  nothing.  What  has  the  Town  done  for  me? 
'There's  old  Crunden !  old  Hedgehog !'  That's  what  you  say. 
You  don't  even  touch  your  hats  to  me.  You  and  the  Town 
are  all  grovelling  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  Hill  Rise. 
'Look !  Here  comes  one  of  the  swells  from  the  Hill !'  Run 
out  of  your  shops  then — and  touch  your  hats — and  bow  and 
cringe.  'Oh,  thank  you,  my  lord,  for  coming  down  among 


158  HILL  RISE 

us — us  poor  working  folk.'  Well,  I'm  tired  of  it.  I  am  tired 
of  the  lordly  Hill.  I'll  smash  down  its  nonsense.  I'll  swal- 
low it  with  a  new  clean  town.  And  if  you — you  tenants — 
don't  like  my  ways,  you  may  go.  In  five  years  I'll  not  leave 
one  of  the  old  bricks  standing,  to  remind  me  of  your  contempt, 
your  patronage,  and  your  petty  pride.  That's  my  answer  to 
your  request,  Sir  John." 

There  was  a  deep  murmur  of  indignation,  but  very  few 
cries  were  raised.  It  seemed  that  the  strident  voice  had 
cowed  the  audience,  or  that  the  threats  were  so  monstrous  that 
one  was  unable  adequately  to  express  one's  horror.  The  busi- 
ness of  the  meeting  was  of  course  over ;  the  meeting  broke  up 
with  a  strange  quietness,  as  of  surprise,  impotence,  con- 
sternation. 

All,  as  they  rose,  drew  away  from  Crunden  so  that  he  stood 
quite  alone.  Mr.  Bowling,  coming  to  him  from  the  table,  was 
drawn  away  in  the  crowd. 

But  about  Miss  Crunden  all  the  world  had  gathered.  The  Hill 
Rise  ladies  had  pounced  upon  her,  surrounded  her,  brought 
her  away  from  her  father's  side.  They  were  all  talking  to 
her  at  once,  and  over  the  ladies'  shoulders  the  gentlemen 
also  talked  to  her.  Lady  Vincent,  holding  her  arm,  in  vain 
struggled  for  undivided  attention. 

"Miss  Crunden,  can't  you  influence  your  father?  My  dear 
Miss  Crunden,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  "for  your  sake  he  must 
listen  to  reason.  It  would  be  cruel  to  you." 

"He'll  be  'ooted  in  the  streets,"  said  Mr.  Hopkins. 

"He'll  be  pilloried  in  the  public  press,"  said  Mr.  Hope. 

"But  how  cruel  to  you,"  urged  Lady  Vincent.  "Miss 
Crunden,  persuade  him.  Do,  please,  try  to  persuade  him." 

While  Lady  Vincent  and  the  ladies  were  thus  engaged,  while 
Sir  John  with  his  supporters  had  drawn  back  from  the  pub- 
lic enemy,  while  Crunden  stood  bristling  alone  as  a  hedgehog 
that  no  man  cares  to  tackle  further — while  doubt  and  dread 
hung  darkly  over  Hill  House,  the  actions  of  the  son  of  the 
house  were  marked  with  a  new  purpose  and  decision. 

Mr.  Jack,  speaking  to  none,  had  marched  across  the  room, 
banged  open  the  coal-box,  plumped  down  in  an  armchair ;  and, 
with  the  most  determined  energy,  was  putting  on  his  boots. 


HILL  RISE  159 

Jerking  the  laces  taut  and  firm,  he  rapidly  completed  the 
task;  and,  booted,  marched  across  the  room  again — back  to 
old  Crunden. 

"I  say,  Crunden.  Masonic.  That  money  you  lent  me! 
You  won't  get  it  out  of  me — except  one  way.  Look  here. 
You'll  be  employing  people.  This  is  going  to  be  a  big  thing — 
I  only  hope  you  haven't  bitten  off  more  than  you  can  chew. 
Brother  Crunden,  take  me  on.  Give  me  work.  Let  me  work 
out  my  debt — with  just  enough  for  my  grub.  Masonic,"  and 
he  offered  his  hand. 

Old  Crunden  hesitated,  frowning;  then  reluctantly  shook 
hands. 

"Call  on  me,"  he  said  grimly,  "twelve  to-morrow.  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you." 

Then,  turning  his  back,  he  summoned  his  daughter. 

"Lizzie !     Come !" 

And  then,  everybody  drawing  back,  the  crowd  by  the  door 
opened  and  made  a  wide  avenue  for  Mr.  Crunden  and  his 
daughter  to  pass  out. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Delenda  est  Carthago. 

With  appalling  rapidity  Mr.  Crunden  had  set  to  work.  In 
these  weeks,  the  most  eventful  in  the  history  of  Medford, 
it  really  seemed  as  if  the  world  was  moving  faster  to  its  end : 
things  that  should  have  taken  years  to  bring  about  happened 
in  a  single  night;  each  day  brought  some  new  strange  phe- 
nomenon. Men  ceased  to  feel  surprised;  the  old  order  was 
gone;  a  reign  of  chaos  had  opened.  Down  went  the  Gurgian 
wall  that  had  guarded  Lady  Haddenham's  lower  fields;  in 
went  the  road-makers,  smashing  posts  and  rails,  peeling  away 
the  smooth  turf,  tumbling  out  cartloads  of  brickbats;  up 
went  the  huge  boards — with  outlined  map  showing  hundreds 
of  narrow  rectangles,  in  great  white  letters  announcing  that 
this  is  the  Hill  Rise  Building  Estate,  and  calling  on  all  to  apply 
for  eligible  plots  to  Mr.  Richard  Crunden  at  the  Hill  Road 
Yard,  or  to  William  Dowling,  Esq.,  M.S. A.,  at  14  Bridge 
Street.  Then  came  panting,  staggering  horses — a  long  string 
of  carts  from  the  brickfields  by  the  river.  One  day,  as  you 
passed,  you  could  see  the  piles  of  the  ugly  stock  bricks,  and 
by  the  pegs  in  the  ground  trace  the  foundations  of  two  rows 
of  cottages;  next  time  you  passed  and  looked,  footings  were 
set  where  the  pegs  had  been.  When  one  went  that  way  again, 
empty  window  frames  were  in  position;  the  yellow  cottages, 
growing  fast  as  toadstools  after  rain,  had  risen  to  the  first 
floor.  In  a  month  the  first  section  of  the  new  broad  road 
was  completed,  and  the  main  sewer  had  been  carried  two  hun- 
dred yards. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  the  great  upheaval,  there  fell  the 
second  thunderbolt.  Hill  House  was  in  the  market ;  the  great 
Sir  John  was  ruined.  He  and  Lady  Vincent  were  moving 
into  a  little  red-brick  villa  on  the  Redmarsh  Road.  There 
was  to  be  a  sale  at  Hill  House  of  all  those  noble  pieces  of 

160 


HILL  RISE  161 

furniture — leather  armchairs,  sideboards,  mahogany  dinner- 
table,  etc. — which  were  preposterously  too  big  for  Sir  John's 
new  home.  A  respectfully  silent  crowd  gathered  in  the  road- 
way outside  the  white  gates,  to  watch  for  the  brougham  and 
the  brown  liveries  when  Sir  John  and  my  lady  were  leaving 
Hill  House  for  ever.  For  the  last  time,  in  such  state,  they 
emerged  and  slowly  rolled  away.  Euined;  after  to-day  no 
more  prancing  horses,  canary  collars,  and  cockaded  hats; — 
as  they  rolled  away  down  the  gentle  slope  it  seemed  that  the 
glory  of  the  Hill  was  visibly  departing.  Hats  were  lifted,  but 
no  man  spoke ;  bowing,  bareheaded,  the  little  crowd  expressed 
its  sympathy  and  awe  by  silence. 

At  the  furniture  sale,  however,  there  was  noise  enough. 
All  Medf  ord  came  pressing  again  to  the  big  dining-room.  But 
for  the  size  of  things  there  would  have  been  competition  to 
secure  mementos  or  souvenirs.  Mementos  were  really  too 
large  to  deal  with,  and  prices  ruled  ridiculously  low.  The 
gigantic  sideboard  fell  to  Bob  Drake  of  the  White  Hart  Hotel, 
together  with  the  coal-box  and  six  armchairs.  For  the  rest, 
the  dealers  were  unchallenged  and  could  settle  among  them- 
selves which  lots  each  should  have,  and  how  much  each  should 
give  for  them. 

Then  once  more  white  bills  appeared  on  garden  walls.  Hill 
House  and  grounds — ten  acres  freehold — would  soon  be  of- 
fered for  public  auction  in  the  Mart,  London,  at  3  P.M.  pre- 
cisely. Swiftly,  too  swiftly,  the  appointed  date  arrived,  and 
by  order  of  the  mortgagees  this  unique  and  compact  estate — 
"desirable  as  a  residence  for  a  nobleman  or  gentleman,  and 
affording  unrivalled  opportunities  for  prompt  development 
as  a  much  needed  area  for  building" — was  put  up  and  knocked 
down  for  £11,500.  On  this  occasion  no  secret  was  made  of 
the  purchaser's  name.  The  property  had  been  sold  to  the 
London  &  Suburban  Land  Trust;  and,  as  might  readily  be 
guessed,  this  company  would  not  reside  in  Hill  House  like 
noblemen  or  gentlemen.  They  had  bought  to  destroy. 

Meanwhile,  during  these  autumn  months,  the  emigration 
of  the  Hill  Eise  tenants  was  already  beginning.  The  Tennis 
Club  was  winding  itself  up  in  a  sort  of  private  bankruptcy — 
with  dreadful  revelations  as  to  the  rottenness  of  its  financial 


162  HILL  RISE 

management,  the  extent  of  its  indebtedness,  and  the  necessity 
of  making  heavy  calls  upon  its  members  in  order  to  meet 
outstanding  liabilities;  Sir  John  had  gone  from  the  hill;  all 
its  glory  had  gone; — why  should  any  one  linger?  Captain 
Sholto  of  Number  4  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh  of  Number  19 
were  following  Sir  John  to  the  Kedmarsh  Eoad  and  had 
taken  villas  within  easy  reach  of  him.  Notices  of  departure 
from  odd  and  even  numbers  poured  in  upon  the  new  land- 
lord. He  had  said,  "If  you  don't  like  my  ways,  you  may 
go,"  and  they  hastened  to  show  him  their  dislike. 

Mr.  Bowling,  reading  each  fresh  letter  from  a  tenant,  shook 
his  head  and  said  "Tut,  tut" ;  but  Mr.  Crunden  only  grunted. 
Mr.  Bowling  deeply  regretted  that  most  injudicious  speech  of 
his  client ;  spoke  of  it  always  as  "the  unfortunate  outbreak." 

That  the  Hill  Kise  tenants  had  it  in  their  power  thus  to 
take  Mr.  Crunden  at  his  word,  was  due  to  the  outwardly 
magnificent  and  essentially  unbusinesslike  methods  of  Messrs. 
Firmin  and  Mr.  A.  The  terms  of  the  beautifully  printed 
original  short  agreements  had  long  since  run  out,  and  ten- 
ancies were  continued  by  the  year,  by  the  half  year,  and  even 
by  the  quarter.  Tinder  these  noble  agreements  the  landlady 
was  to  do  everything,  the  tenants  were  to  do  nothing.  For 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  no  Hill  Eise  tenant  had  ever  put  hand 
in  pocket  for  aught  beyond  the  bare  rent.  There  were,  how- 
ever, three  repairing  leases — held  by  Mrs.  Granville,  Mrs. 
Padfield,  and  Mrs.  Page,  who  paid  a  lower  rent  than  their 
neighbours.  But  the  original  periods  of  these  three  really 
businesslike  leases  were  also  exhausted;  the  good  ladies  had 
stayed  from  year  to  year;  they  were  never  called  upon  to 
set  their  houses  in  order ;  and,  as  time  wore  on,  they  asked  as 
boldly  as  any  one  else  that  Mr.  A.  should  give  commands 
for  such  repair  as  they  deemed  desirable. 

Messrs.  Griggs,  the  smart  auctioneers,  were  shocked  by  the 
state  of  affairs  when  they  drew  up  the  particulars  for  the 
Hill  Rise  sale.  They  would  have  wished  to  be  able  to  say 
something  after  this  style:  "The  houses  are  all  let  to  re- 
sponsible tenants  at  an  average  rental  of  £100  p.  a.  for  terms 
varying  from  3  to  20  years,  and  an  assured  income  of  £2,000 
P.  a.  can  therefore  be  secured,  etc.,  etc."  But  they  could 


HILL  RISE 

say  nothing  of  the  kind.  In  the  circumstances,  only  an  auc- 
tioneer would  have  known  what  to  say.  Messrs.  Griggs  made 
a  proud  boast  of  that  which  was  truly  a  misfortune.  "The 
attention  of  intending  purchasers,"  said  boastful  Griggs,  "is 
called  to  the  advantageous  fact  that  vacant  possession  of  all 
the  houses  can  be  obtained  within  twelve  months."  And 
now  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Crunden  was  to  enjoy  every  advan- 
tage of  vacant  possession. 

Very  great  were  the  indignation  and  rage  up  and  down  the 
devastated  hillside,  when  it  became  known  that  Mr.  Crunden 
demanded  of  the  lease-holders  his  pound  of  flesh.  Old  Mrs. 
Granville  of  Number  14,  after  sending  in  her  notice,  re- 
ceived a  morning  call  from  Mr.  Dowling;  and,  at  his  polite 
request,  permitted  him  to  ramble  with  the  parlourmaid  all 
over  the  house.  "He  poked  his  nose,  ma'am,  into  every  cup- 
board," said  the  maid.  "I  don't  know  what  he  meant  by  it.** 
But  what  Mr.  Dowling  meant  was  not  long  left  in  doubt. 
There  came  with  little  delay  to  Mrs.  Granville  an  absurd  thing 
entitled  Schedule  of  Dilapidations,,  containing  descriptions 
even  of  her  smallest  cupboards,  quotations  from  clauses  five 
and  six  of  her  stupid  old  leases;  and  a  verbose  invitation  to 
carry  out  the  work  specified  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Dowling 
or  to  pay  to  Mr.  Crunden  £250  in  lieu  thereof. 

"But  he  is  going  to  pull  it  down,"  said  the  old  widow  lady. 
"I  won't  pay  one  penny.  He  owned  himself  he  was  going 
to  pull  it  down." 

"What  the  devil  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  said  Mr. 
Crunden  warmly,  when  explaining  the  matter  to  Lizzie  and  to 
his  clerk. 

Lizzie  and  the  clerk  were  both  puzzled,  and  inclined  to 
think  with  Mrs.  Granville  that  it  would  be  strange  to  paint 
and  paper  a  house  before  knocking  it  to  pieces. 

"I  may  pull  it  down  or  leave  it  standing — that's  my  busi- 
ness. I  don't  want  her  paint  and  paper;  I  want  her  money — 
what  she  owes.  But  if  she  won't  pay,  I'll  make  her  do  the 
work.  This  obligation  of  hers  to  pay  two-fifty,  or  something 
like  it,  /  have  bought  and  paid  for ; — it  was  a  debt  to  Countess 
Haddenham  under  the  covenant — and  /  have  bought  the  debt 
and  the  covenant.  Can't  you  understand  that  ?" 


164  HILL  RISE 

Certainly  Mrs.  Granville  and  her  friends  on  the  hill  could 
not  understand  it.  Mr.  Crunden  was  very  unpopular  at  this 
time,  and  the  story  of  his  most  rapaciously  impudent  attempt 
rendered  him  more  hateful  than  ever.  "But  he  will  not  get 
it — not  one  penny.  Mrs.  Granville  told  him  so  to  his  face." 

This  was  incorrect.  Mrs.  Granville  had  no  personal  inter- 
view with  her  new  landlord.  But,  meeting  his  surveyor  one 
day  on  the  bridge,  she  gave  that  gentleman  a  tremendous 
dressing.  Mr.  Bowling — with  My  dear  Madams,  and  so 
forth — endeavoured  to  defend  the  schedule  and  his  client; 
but  Mrs.  Granville  roundly  told  him  that  he  and  his  client 
were  no  better  than  a  couple  of  thieves — and  threatened  them 
both  with  the  law  of  the  land. 

"We  are  not  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  at  last  thoroughly 
nettled,  "of  the  law  of  the  land.  That  is  exactly  what  Mr. 
Crunden  intends  to  appeal  to,  if  you  don't  pay  up  precious 
quick  now.  ...  It  isn't  as  if  you  hadn't  the  means  to  pay," 
said  Mr.  Dowling  excitedly. 

"I  won't  pay  one  penny,"  said  Mrs.  Granville. 

Would  you  believe  it?  All  of  it  was  true — what  Mr. 
Dowling  said.  Old  Mr.  Garrett — who  had  himself  been  a 
solicitor — told  poor  dear  old  Mrs.  Granville  that  the  law 
of  the  land  would  not  help  her.  Mr.  Garrett  advised  her  to 
offer  £200,  and  they  would  probably  split  the  difference  and 
accept  £225.  "And  in  the  end  she  paid  that  man  two  hundred 
and  twenty-five  golden  pounds.  Would  you  credit  it?" 

Nothing  could  well  exceed  the  unpopularity  of  Mr.  Crun- 
den. He  was  the  enemy  of  the  whole  people :  town  and  hill 
were  united  in  their  feeling  towards  him.  "It  was  so  un- 
necessary," said  Mr.  Dowling,  speaking  of  the  outbreak. 
"Unpopular  we  must  have  been — just  at  first — because  of 
what  we  had  in  hand.  And  I  knew  you'd  made  up  your 
mind  to  tell  them  plainly  what  we  proposed  doing.  But  I 
never  did  think  you'd  let  fly  like  that — at  the  whole  world. 
It  was  so  unnecessary.  It  makes  everything  difficult  that 
ought  to  have  been  easy.  Look  at  the  delay  in  getting  plans 
passed  by  the  Council.  They  didn't  dare  throw  out  the  plans 
for  those  cottages,  because  they  were  identical  with  what  they'd 
passed  for  me  twice  before — but  they  stopped  us  a  fortnight 


HILL  RISE  165 

and  more.  Next  time,  you  see — when  it's  house  plans.  I 
tell  you  that  speech  will  cost  us  dear  before  it's  forgotten." 

"I  don't  care  a  d ,"  said  Crunden.  "I  let  'em  have 

it  straight  for  once.  I  don't  grudge  the  cost." 

No  citizen  would  speak  to  him  willingly — unless  it  was  old 
Selby;  and  even  he  snarled  and  glared  at  first  when  he  en- 
countered the  owner  of  Hill  Rise.  The  old  man  was  staring 
at  the  map  on  one  of  the  big  boards  when  Crunden  came  by 
on  his  way  to  the  new  road. 

"Well,  Mr.  Selby,  you  see  our  plan.  Go  in  and  have  a  look 
round — if  you  care  to." 

"Yes,  I  see.    Mighty  fine  ta'ask  you've  got." 

"Wish  me  luck,  Mr.  Selby." 

"Wish  ye  luck,"  and  the  old  man  glared  and  his  hands 
shook  from  anger.  "Wish  ye  to  empty  my  last  houses  to 
fill  yours !  Yes — take  my  last  tenants  from  me — and  leave 
me  and  me  young  wife  to  starve — and  wish  ye  luck." 

"I  shan't  do  your  houses  any  hurt,"  said  Crunden.  "More 
likely  do  'em  good  by  bringing  new  people  into  the  place." 

Then  Mr.  Selby  ceased  to  snarl.  "There,  young  Crunden," 
he  said  presently,  "I  bear  ye  no  malice.  You  or  another — 
it's  all  one." 

After  this,  Mr.  Selby  would  often  come  pottering  about 
the  estate  watching  the  road-makers  and  the  bricklayers, 
busily  at  work;  or,  clambering  over  the  post-and-rail  fences, 
he  would  make  a  circuit  of  the  meadows,  and  as  he  stood  on 
the  higher  ground  at  a  very  little  distance,  any  one  might  have 
mistaken  him  for  a  dismal  shabby  scarecrow  left,  as  not  worth 
removing,  by  the  late  owner.  He  talked  now  to  Crunden  in 
a  friendly  spirit. 

"Young  Crunden,  what  ye  going  to  do  with  that  shanty  up 
there — the  Tennis  Clubhouse?  'Tis  but  a  shed,  though  they 
ca'alled  it  the  house.  I'm  thinking  I  might  make  ye  a  bid 
for  it — if  ye'd  let  me  break  it  up  on  credit.  .  .  .  Not  yours 
to  sell?  Ah  well,  .  .  .  I've  been  having  a  crack  with  your 
clerk.  He  tells  me  ye're  doing  gra'andly — your  cottages 
mostly  let  before  ye're  plate  high — and  more  applications  for 
your  building  plots  than  ye  can  find  time  to  answer.  Is 
that  a  fa'act?" 


166  HILL  RISE 

"I'm  doing  all  right,  thank  you,  Mr.  Selby !" 

"Ah — I  know.  I  know.  Your  clerk  tells  the  tale  you  tell 
him.  Quite  right.  But  it's  a  mighty  big  ta'ask  ye've  taken 
up." 

"Not  a  bit  too  big,"  said  Crunden  resolutely. 

No  townsman,  except  old  Selby,  accosted  him  with  friendly 
greeting.  Bad  greeting  the  town  gave  him  whenever  he 
showed  himself.  Mud  was  thrown  at  him  by  gutter  boys, 
who  threw  and  fled;  stones  sometimes  came  after  the 
mud;  men  shook  their  fists  at  him  as  soon  as  his  sturdy 
back  was  turned  to  them;  and  always  insulting  shouts 
followed  him.  "'Edge'og  Crunden.  'Edge'og.  Garn,  y'old 
'edge'og." 

Never,  since  Medford  was  incorporated  as  a  borough,  had 
any  citizen  been  so  unpopular.  And  the  hostile  feeling  seemed 
week  by  week  to  wax  rather  than  to  wane.  With  November 
and  Guy  Fawkes  day,  came  what  ever  after  was  locally  known 
as  the  Eiot.  There  were  guys  in  replica  that  year.  There 
could  be  but  one  subject  for  guying,  and  they  made  of  him 
three  or  four  copies.  One  of  these  guys,  borne  through  the 
streets  at  the  workmen's  dinner  hour,  gathered  all  mischievous 
idlers  and  hooting  boys  until  the  guy  headed  a  long  procession. 
Then,  as  a  bright  idea,  it  occurred  to  the  guy-attendants  to 
carry  it  with  the  procession  up  the  new  road,  round  and  about 
the  estate,  and  burn  the  effigy  of  Hedgehog  Crunden  on  his 
own  land  at  full  noon.  Other  copies  could  wait  for  night  to 
be  burnt  on  the  open  common  with  firework  accompaniment, 
but  this  most  successful  copy  must  be  sacrificed  with  sun- 
light in  this  happy  manner.  While  the  procession  turned 
into  Hill  Rise  you  could  hear  the  shouting  as  far  off  as  the 
railway  station. 

But  at  the  top  of  the  first  section  of  the  new  road,  Mr. 
Crunden's  clerk  barred  the  way,  addressed  the  mob,  ordered 
them  to  the  right  about — and  then,  passing  from  words  to 
blows,  fought  with  the  leaders,  beat  one  leader  so  sorely 
that  the  procession  turned  and  riotously  went  back  the  way 
it  had  come.  That  was  the  first  part  of  the  famous  riot. 
The  second  part  was  after  dusk  had  fallen :  when  King's  Cot- 
tage was  placed  under  police  protection,  and  yet,  nevertheless, 


HILL  RISE  167 

and  in  spite  of  two  smart  arrests  by  the  Medford  constabu- 
lary, had  several  of  its  windows  broken  with  stones. 

Next  day  there  appeared  before  the  magistrates  two  of 
the  rioters — and  also  Mr.  Crunden's  clerk,  with  a  black  patch 
on  his  forehead,  with  bandaged  hand  and  arm  in  sling,  sum- 
moned for  assault  of  Frederick  Hoyle,  brewer's  carman,  and 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  common  "drunk  and  disor- 
derly." All  Medford  seemed  trying  to  squeeze  in  to  get  a 
peep  at  him :  the  court  was  so  crowded  that  one  could  hardly 
breathe.  Sir  John  Vincent,  Bart.,  left  the  bench  while  this 
case  was  dealt  with.  Never  had  Medford  seen  the  like  of  it. 
When  the  defendant's  conduct  was  pardoned  because  of  the 
provocation  received,  there  were  a  few  faint  cheers  amidst 
the  loud  hisses.  They  hissed  the  poor  clerk,  because  they 
hated  his  employer. 

They  hated  him  as  an  open  and  avowed  enemy  of  their 
once  peaceful  town.  He  was  full  of  resolution,  and  quite 
without  fear.  He  flatly  refused  to  pay  for  police  protection ; 
no  shaking  of  fists,  or  shouts  or  threats  turned  him  an  inch 
from  his  path ;  he  was  a  hedgehog  that  kept  bristles  ready  for 
any  dog  who  should  dare  to  tackle  him.  But,  in  sober  truth, 
feeling  had  now  run  so  high  that  it  was  scarce  safe  for  him  to 
walk  abroad  unless  his  clerk  walked  with  him. 

Crunden's  clerk  was  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  and  no  one  else. 
The  son  of  Sir  John  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy.  It  was  a 
strange  transfer  of  allegiance,  a  wonderful  voluntary  fall 
from  the  top  of  the  social  ladder  to  its  lowest  rung:  one  day, 
the  leader  of  fashion,  lord  and  prince  among  splendid  loafers, 
and  the  next  a  humble  worker,  paid  servant  of  a  common 
working-man.  He  lived  in  a  workman's  cottage,  as  lodger  of 
Mrs.  Gates,  close  to  Crunden's  yard.  You  could  see  him  in 
the  yard  any  morning,  with  an  invoice  in  his  hand,  super- 
intending and  checking  the  delivery  of  materials ;  or  again  at 
evening  in  the  small  office  just  inside  the  archway,  busy  with 
time-sheets  while  bricklayers,  carpenters,  etc.,  came  in  and 
out  through  the  open  door.  And  all  day  long  you  might  see 
him  hurrying  here  and  there :  to  King's  Cottage,  to  the  rail- 
way to  watch  trucks  unloaded,  down  to  the  brickfields  by  the 


168  HILL  RISE 

river,  back  again  to  the  estate  to  count  the  piled  bricks  or 
measure  up  the  lengths  of  drain-pipes — in  a  word,  working 
at  one  thing  or  another.  It  was  said  that  he  went  on  all 
errands  for  Crunden,  cleaned  the  knives  and  boots  at  King's 
Cottage;  and,  in  return  for  these  degrading  services,  was 
allowed  perhaps  ten  shillings  a  week,  and  the  run  of  his  teeth 
in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Price. 

But  here,  as  usual,  gossip  was  inexact.  Mr.  Jack  was 
called  upon  to  perform  no  menial  domestic  offices;  he  was 
receiving  a  weekly  wage  of  thirty-five  shillings;  he  took  his 
meals — dinner  and  tea — with  the  family,  and  was  moreover 
sometimes  formally  invited  to  supper. 

When,  keeping  the  grudgingly  given  appointment,  he  had 
repeated  his  application  for  work,  old  Crunden  manifested 
the  strongest  disinclination  to  comply  with  the  request,  made 
many  excuses,  was  obviously  much  embarrassed. 

"Look  here,  sir.  I'd  rather  not.  ...  As  to  that  loan  you 
mentioned — don't  bother  about  it.  There's  no  hurry.  Take 
any  time  you  like." 

"But  I  do  bother  about  it,"  said  Jack.  "I  want  to  pay 
you — and  I  will,  if  you'll  take  me  on.  I  promise  you  won't 
regret  it.  Give  me  work  to  do — and  I'll  do  it,  whatever  it 
is.  I  promise  I'll  be  useful." 

"Don't  press  me,  sir.    I  tell  you  frank,  I'd  rather  not." 

"Because  you  don't  believe  in  me,"  said  Jack  eagerly,  and 
pressing  more  than  ever.  "You  think  I'm  an  idle  fool — but 
I'll  show  you're  wrong  if  you'll  give  me  a  chance";  and  again 
Jack  used  the  masonic  form  of  address:  "Brother  Crunden, 
give  me  a  chance." 

Brother  Crunden,  extremely  embarrassed,  said  he  would 
think  it  over  and  Brother  Vincent  might  call  again.  He  dis- 
cussed the  extraordinary  request  first  with  Mr.  Bowling,  and 
then  with  Lizzie. 

"He  says  he  can  make  himself  useful.  How  the  dickens 
could  he  be  useful  ?" 

"Useful !"  cried  Mr.  Bowling,  with  enthusiasm.  "He'll  be 
worth  his  weight  in  gold.  Give  him  anything  he  asks,  but 
get  hold  of  him.  Bon't  you  see — having  him  on  our  side — 
merely  to  exhibit  him,  let  people  know  he's  with  us — will 


HILL  RISE  169 

be  worth  any  money.  He's  the  very  man  to  help  us — to  act  as 
go-between,  smooth  things  over,  and  cure  all  the  soreness 
against  us." 

In  this  notion,  as  events  proved,  Mr.  Dowling  was  far  too 
hopeful.  But  at  the  time  he  was  confident  that  if  Mr.  Vin- 
cent publicly  joined  hands  with  them,  their  present  disfavour 
with  the  community  would  soon  blow  over. 

Then,  after  a  day  or  two,  Crunden  spoke  about  the  matter 
to  his  daughter.  Lizzie's  thought  now  was  only  for  her 
father.  He  had  embarked  on  a  vast  and  dangerous  enter- 
prise; his  whole  fortune  was  at  stake;  toil  and  anxiety  lay 
before  him.  When  she  heard  his  unfortunate  outbreak  at 
the  meeting,  guilt  and  remorse  possessed  her.  More  bitterly 
than  hitherto  she  hated  herself  for  the  childish  folly  that  had 
been  the  first  cause  of  all  his  subsequent  action.  The  folly  had 
faded,  been  washed  away  with  tears,  burnt  out  by  hotly  re- 
pentant thoughts — all  of  it,  she  believed,  was  gone  from  her; 
but  its  wide-reaching  consequences  remained.  If  she  had  not 
stung  her  father  into  anger  against  the  Hill,  he  would  never 
have  planned  its  destruction.  She  was  sure  of  this,  although 
he  told  her  always  that  she  was  in  no  manner  connected  with 
the  reasons  that  had  moved  him. 

"Nonsense,  Liz.  I  never  thought  of  all  that  again.  It 
was  over  and  done  with — something  we  both  meant  to  forget. 
No,  this  scheme  was  in  my  mind  from  the  moment  Mr. 
Dowling  put  it  before  me.  Then,  while  you  were  in  Corn- 
wall, I  went  into  it  and  began  to  see  my  way  clear.  If  I 
kept  it  a  secret  from  you,  it  was  only  because  I  knew  you'd 
be  against  it.  But  nothing  could  have  shaken  me.  You  re- 
member what  I  told  you — that  perhaps  I  should  need  all 
your  help.  Well,  my  mind  was  almost  made  up  then." 

And  Lizzie — cured  of  her  day-dreaming — vowed  herself 
to  a  good  daughter's  task. 

"I  shall  need,"  said  Crunden,  "all  the  help  I  can  get  from 
you,  and  others.  It's  a  big  thing — a  very  big  thing  I'm  in 
for.  But  it's  not  too  big — don't  let  any  one  persuade  you 
that  it's  more  than  I  can  carry  through." 

And  then  he  told  her  about  Jack  Vincent's  pressing  re- 
quest. 


170  HILL  RISE 

"Mr.  Bowling,  he  says  he'll  be  worth  his  pay — and  of  course 
there's  no  doubt  of  Sir  John's  upset; — and  Mr.  Vincent,  he 
has  made  his  appeal  to  me  very  strong.  Well,  he's  made  it  on 
reasons  that  lie  between  him  and  me — that  are  not  business, — 
and  that  I  don't  think  he  should  have  brought  into  it.  But 
now,  my  dear,  give  me  a  true  answer.  Will  it  make  any 
difference  to  you?" 

Lizzie  said  firmly  that  it  could  not  make  the  smallest 
difference  to  her. 

"Quite  sure?  Of  course  you  won't  have  to  take  any  notice 
of  him.  I'm  getting  rid  of  Stevens  out  of  the  yard  end 
of  week,,  and  hope  to  have  his  mess  and  filth  cleaned  away 
and  the  yard  ready  to  open  by  end  of  next  week;  and  it's 
at  the  yard  I  shall  mostly  keep  Mr.  Vincent.  But  I  won't 
do  it — unless  you  can  say  honestly  that  I  shan't  be  doing 
wrong." 

And  Lizzie,  only  thinking  of  what  was  good  for  her  father, 
said  he  would  do  right,  not  wrong,  in  adopting  Mr.  Dow- 
ling's  advice  and  employing  Mr.  Vincent. 

"I've  thought  it  over,  sir,"  said  Crunden  to  Jack  when  he 
presented  himself  again.  "I've  thought  it  over  and  the 
answer  is,  Yes." 

"Thank  you,  sir — you're  a  trump — and  a  good  Mason." 

Mr.  Jack's  sleek  face  shone  with  excitement  and  pleasure. 
But  the  wages — "thirty-five  bob" — were  too  much. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Crunden.  "That's  what  you  ought  to  get — 
if  you're  any  value  at  all — and  it's  what  I  should  give  to 
any  one  else." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

From  the  moment  that  Jack  was  engaged,  he  called  his  em- 
ployer Sir;  and  now  it  was  curious  to  hear  each  saying  Sir 
to  the  other. 

"I  would  like,"  said  old  Crunden,  "to  mention,  sir,  that 
I  am  sorrv  to  hear  of  this  upset  of  Sir  John's  affairs." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"I  never  expected  such  a  thing.  I  had  no  idea  of  it,  sir"; 
Mr.  Crunden  continued  with  visible  reluctance.  "In  the 
remarks  I  let  fall  at  the  meeting,  sir — well,  as  to  my  opinion 
of  the  Town  and  the  Hill — which  I  gave  frank  for  once, — 


HILL  RISE  171 

there's  not  a  word  I'd  wish  to  draw  back.  But  in  anything  I 
said  which  might  seem  disrespectful  or  short  to  Sir  John — 
well,  if  so,  I  wouldn't  have  said  it,  if  I  had  guessed  that  Sir 
John  was  a  gentleman  down  on  his  luck  as  one  may  term  it." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  sir.  If  you  couldn't  say  Yes,  it  didn't 
much  matter  how  you  said  No.  And  you  said  nothing  dis- 
respectful to  my  father  that  I  heard — or  I  shouldn't  be  here 
now,  sir." 

"Well  answered,  sir.  No,  I  meant  no  disrespect  to  Sir 
John — only  meant  to  say  No  plain  and  firm.  .  .  .  How  did 
it  come  about,  sir — the  upset?" 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  smiling,  "Sir  John  tells  me  he  has  been 
muddling  things  for  a  long  time — and,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  that  hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head." 

"Ah !  You  see,  sir,  a  gentleman  like  your  father  soon 
gets  adrift  in  financial  operations.  It's  a  special  business 
training,  sir,  straight  up  from  the  bottom;  and  gentlemen 
high-placed  from  their  birth  can't  be  expected  to  master  it 
sufficient  to  protect  themselves.  When  it  comes  to  money 
questions,  they're  bound  to  be  outmanoeuvred — if  not  tricked 
and  cheated  half  the  time.  .  .  .  But  I  hope,  sir,"  said  Crun- 
den,  with  genuine  sympathy,  "that  the  upset  is  not  as  bad  as 
people  make  out." 

"Well,  sir — my  governor's  fairly  in  the  cart.  But,  no,  it's 
not  really  so  bad.  They'll  do  very  well — my  mother  has  money 
of  her  own.  Look  here,  sir,  it's  just  this :  I  think  my  father 
and  mother  will  have  enough  for  themselves,  but  I  don't  think 
they've  enough  to  keep  a  grown-up  son  in  idleness." 

"Well  answered,  sir,"  said  old  Crunden  again.  "But  Sir 
John  and  her  ladyship,  sir — will  they  give  their  consent  to 
your  turning  to,  down  here — in  the  place  where  you  are  so 
well  known?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Jack  cheerfully.  "That  is — I  haven't  asked 
their  consent  yet.  But  if  they  won't  give  it — I  shall  have 
to  do  without  it." 

Then  Jack  Vincent,  highly  elated  by  his  success  in  obtain- 
ing the  engagement,  hurried  away  to  face  and  bear  down 
parental  opposition.  He  was  full  of  energy,  excitement,  and 
enthusiasm :  in  the  midst  of  gloom  and  disaster,  he  was  like 


172  HILL  RISE 

a  happy  light-hearted  child  who  has  discovered  a  new  amuse- 
ment. It  was  as  if  after  the  house  has  fallen,  a  little  boy  is 
seen  playing  a  game  and  enjoying  himself  about  the  ruins 
even  while  the  dust  and  noise  are  still  in  the  air. 

Sir  John  Vincent  declared  that  his  son's  plans  for  the 
future  were  outrageous  and  absurd.  He  could  never  counte- 
nance them.  Jack  must  really  abandon  them  at  once. 

"I  tell  you,  Jack,  it's  only  a  question  of  time.  Give  me 
time,  and  I'll  pull  things  together  even  now.  Meantime, 
our  home,  however  humble,  is  your  home.  You  shan't  want 
for  comfort — and  for  pocket  money."  ' 

But  Jack  said  that  henceforth  any  money  that  might  lie 
in  his  pockets  must  be  earned  by  himself. 

"Don't  do  it,  Jack.  It  will  be  so  dashed  humiliating  to  me. 
As  a  pal — you'll  be  making  me  so  confoundly  uncomfortable. 
With  that  hedgehog  of  a  fellow,  too !  Oh,  it  really  would  be 
infernal." 

Jack,  in  the  most  friendly,  genial  way,  explained  that  the 
hour  had  come  when  he  must  think  and  act  for  himself.  He 
very  much  regretted  that  he  could  not  now  be  guided  by  his 
father's  advice.  He  saw  nothing  derogatory  in  honest  labour. 

Lady  Vincent,  for  her  part,  regarded  Jack  and  his  ideas 
with  the  greatest  admiration.  She  shed  tears  of  pride  and 
love  when  she  listened  to  his  noble  arguments.  In  principle, 
she  agreed  with  every  word  he  said.  Nothing  could  be 
grander  or  finer  than  work,  yes,  real  work.  "But  not  here, 
Jack.  Anywhere  else,  but  not  here.  And,  my  dearest  boy, 
not  that  sort  of  work — and,  Jack,  above  all,  not  with  that 
dreadful  man.  It  would  be  too  distressing  to  your  father." 

But  if  Jack  cared  to  go  up  to  London  and  take  some  small 
post  under  Government,  or  be  private  secretary  to  some  rising 
politician,  then  Lady  Vincent  would  be  the  happiest  of 
mothers.  She  and  Sir  John  could  well  provide  ample  funds 
for  an  indefinite  period  while  Jack  was  looking  about  him, 
and  seeking  an  avenue  likely  to  lead  to  ultimate  greatness. 

"No,"  said  Jack,  with  terrible  determination.  "I'm  not 
going  to  sponge  on  you  any  longer.  Besides,  I  know  what  it 
would  mean — it  would  all  end  in  talk.  I  should  never  start 
work  at  all." 


"If  ever  I  am  unhappy,  it  is  because  you  have  done  too  much  for  me." 

—Page  117 


HILL  RISE  173 

He  would  take  nothing  from  them — not  a  penny.  He 
would  be  self-supporting:  now,  this  minute,  and  ever  after. 
For  his  immediate  needs  he  had  already,  as  he  said,  begun 
to  raise  the  wind.  He  had  summoned  from  Water  Lane 
that  well-known  citizen  Mr.  Gregory,  the  second-hand  clothes 
dealer,  and  was  selling  the  superfluities  of  his  wardrobe.  Some 
other  personal  property — his  old  gun,  a  service  revolver, 
sword,  etc.,  and  some  small  trinkets,  such  as  tie  pins  and 
sleeve  links — he  could  also  "put  up  the  spout"  if  neces- 
sary. 

"I  shall  have  plenty  of  cash  to  start  with.  Don't  you  worry 
yourself,  mother;  I  shall  be  all  right." 

Lady  Vincent,  however,  continued  to  worry  herself. 

"Jack,  I  shall  never  reconcile  myself  to  it.  I  don't  fret 
about  your  father's  misfortunes.  I  don't  mind  our  losing 
all  our  money,  but  if  we  are  to  lose  you,  I  shall  never  get 
over  it." 

"You  won't  lose  me,"  said  Jack  cheerfully.  "I'll  often  come 
to  dinner — if  yo.u  and  the  Governor  will  ask  me.  I  don't 
intend  to  pop  my  dress  suits,  you  know" ;  and,  as  he  took  his 
mother's  hand,  he  in  his  turn  became  the  petitioner.  "Mother 
dear,  don't  think  me  unkind — or  selfishly  obstinate.  But  you 
know  how  often  you've  said  it — to  rouse  myself.  Do  you 
remember  what  I  told  you? — the  whisper  in  the  wind — how 
we  all  had  heard  it;  but  I  shouldn't  hear  it  again!  Well, 
I  heard  it  directly — that  afternoon.  Not  a  whisper :  a  shout — 
a  trumpet  call — some  one  with  a  megaphone  bellowing  into  my, 
ear :  'John  Vincent.  Wake.  Put  on  your  boots.'  .  .  .  Don't 
try  to  baulk  me  now,  mother.  It's  my  last  chance — my  very 
last  chance." 

Then,  in  the  most  undignified  fashion — with  Mr.  Gregory, 
etc. — Jack  raised  the  wind ;  went  about  the  town  paying  little 
debts, — Mr.  Eudd,  the  tobacconist;  Mr.  Drake  of  the  White 
Hart,  etc. ;  fetched  a  man  with  a  hand-cart  from  the  station 
to  remove  his  luggage ;  and  firmly  established  himself  in  Mrs. 
Gates'  cottage  hard  by  Mr.  Crunden's  yard.  Of  the  cash 
obtained  from  the  sale  of  costumes  and  ornaments,  etc.,  there 
was  a  sufficient  residuum  to  enable  him  to  hand  Mr.  Crun- 
den  two  pounds  on  account  of  the  fifty  pounds  loan.  The 


174  HILL  RISE 

balance  of  the  debt  he  hoped,  if  he  kept  his  situation,  to  work 
off  without  avoidable  delay. 

He  was  worth  thirty-five  shillings  a  week.  His  energy  was 
so  abnormal  that  at  first  he  was  subject  to  fits  of  complete 
exhaustion,  and  thus  it  seemed  that  his  working  power  was  of 
a  fitful  or  intermittent  character.  But  soon  it  became  appar- 
ent to  his  employer  that  whatever  his  capacity  for  work 
might  be,  the  purpose  behind  it  was  strong  and  unwavering. 
His  desire  was  to  do  good  work:  if  he  failed,  it  was  never 
from  voluntary  slacking.  He  did  not  achieve  anything  at  all 
in  the  way  of  ameliorating  the  relations  between  Mr.  Crunden 
and  the  Town.  But  in  all  other  ways  he  became  more  and 
more  useful  to  Mr.  Crunden.  So  useful,  in  fact,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  him,  like  a  good  watch-dog,  "mostly  in 
the  yard."  He  was  continually  wanted  at  King's  Cottage, 
where  he  gave  really  valuable  assistance  in  the  composition 
of  letters  replying  to  inquiries,  etc. ;  he  was  of  value  also  dur- 
ing interminable  parleys  with  builders,  house  agents,  etc., 
who  were  considering  the  purchase  or  lease  of  the  ground 
plots ;  and  he  was,  as  Mr.  Dowling  often  said,  almost  invalua- 
ble as  a  patient,  good-tempered  showman  when  visitors  were 
going  over  the  ground  itself.  After  a  time  a  place  was 
allotted  to  him  in  the  big  working-room  at  the  Cottage;  the 
table  and  desk  between  the  lobby  door  and  the  window  were 
known  as  "Mr.  Vincent's  place."  He  was  in  his  place  for 
so  many  hours  of  the  day  that  soon  it  became  convenient 
to  permit  Mr.  Vincent  to  take  a  share  in  the  two  family 
meals  of  dinner  and  tea.  There  had  been  awkwardness  and 
embarrassment  for  all  when,  at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Price  or 
Mary  entering  with  dishes  and  plates,  the  perhaps  hungry 
•clerk  was  compelled  to  take  his  hat  from  the  peg,  and  slink 
away  from  the  appetising  odour  of  hot  meats  or  the  cheering 
fragrance  of  new-made  tea.  Mr.  Vincent  thankfully  accepted 
the  invitation  to  leave  his  hat  on  the  wall  and  bring  his  chair 
to  the  table. 

"But,  sir,"  he  said  to  his  host,  "if  you're  kind  enough 
to  give  me  my  grub,  you  must  knock  something  substantial 
off  my  weekly  screw.  It  wasn't  in  the  bargain." 


HILL  RISE  175 

"No,  sir,"  said  Crunden  gruffly  but  cordially.  '^You're 
welcome.  But  I  understand  your  pride — I  mean,  your  natural 
pride.  If  you  choose  to  take  it  as  a  small  raise  in  salary — 
well,  you  may  take  it  that  you've  earned  the  raise." 

"You're  paying  too  much  as  it  is." 

"No,  sir.  That's  not  the  case.  If  you  make  me — well,  I 
don't  mind  saying  it :  I  judge  by  many  signs  that  you've  been 
a  good  bargain." 

"Thank  you,  sir;"  and  the  face  of  the  clerk  flushed  with 
pleasure.  These  were  the  first  words  of  praise  or  approval 
that  he  had  received  from  his  employer:  they  were  words 
pleasant  of  sound. 

In  this  manner,  as  most  convenient  to  everybody,  it  came 
about  that  Mr.  Vincent  was  admitted  at  meal  time  an  hon- 
orary member  of  the  family.  He  never  said  Sir  at  dinner 
or  tea — or  at  supper,  to  which  he  came  only  by  special  invita- 
tion, generally  when  Mr.  Dowling  was  also  invited.  At  supper 
Mr.  Vincent  was  a  friend  like  Mr.  Dowling — a  friend  of 
vastly  superior  rank,  treated  by  old  Crunden  with  ceremony 
and  deference.  But  at  all  other  times,  and  more  especially 
when  strangers  were  present,  Mr.  Vincent  said  Sir.  At  all 
other  times,  in  fact,  Mr.  Vincent  was  just  a  paid  clerk,  doing 
his  work,  and  no  one  need  take  any  notice  of  him. 

Lizzie  at  her  place — which  was  the  table  by  the  bureau — 
need  never  give  him  a  thought  outside  of  the  business  that 
brought  him  here.  Lizzie  was  gaining  speed  and  proficiency 
with  her  new  typewriting  machine,  and  indeed  in  her  labour 
maintained  such  a  clack-clack  and  clong-clong,  that  conversa- 
tion would  have  been  impossible.  Thus  strangely  matters  had 
at  last  adjusted  themselves.  Lizzie  sometimes  sat  busily  work- 
ing, with  all  her  heart  in  her  work;  while  only  a  few  yards 
off  there  sat,  also  busily  working,  the  hero  of  her  vanished 
dreams. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

"HE  shed  his  blood  for  your  father,  Miss  Lizzie.  You 
must  never  forget  that." 

At  King's  Cottage  Mr.  Vincent  had  one  staunchly  fervent 
admirer  to  whom  he  was  still  all  a  hero.  This  was  Mrs. 
Price.  Whenever  Mr.  Jack's  conduct  was  called  in  question, 
she  spoke  of  the  fight.  "He  fought  for  you,  sir — for  to  teach 
them  not  to  make  guys  of  their  betters.  I  should  remember 
that  if  I  was  you." 

In  regard  to  the  great  business  enterprise  all  seemed  going 
well  at  Mr.  Crunden's  house,  yard,  and  estate.  Another 
section  of  the  new  road  with  a  branch  to  right  and  left  had 
been  laid  down;  on  the  outskirts  of  the  land  Mr.  Crunden's 
two  rows  of  cottages  were  nearing  completion;  three  more 
rows  were  to  be  built  by  a  builder  from  Eeigate,  with  his  own 
money;  four  villa  plots  out  of  the  two  hundred  and  six 
mapped  by  Mr.  Bowling  had  been  disposed  of  on  lease ;  pleas- 
ant little  patches  of  red,  marking  these  early  successes,  had 
been  painted  on  the  big  show  maps.  There  was  plenty  of 
work  to  occupy  everybody's  thoughts,  and  no  necessity  for 
Lizzie  to  begin  thinking  about  her  father's  clerk ;  but  people — 
first  one,  then  another — made  her  do  so. 

Now  it  was  Mrs.  Price,  stopping  the  well-sustained  clack- 
clack  of  the  typewriter  to  prefer  the  request  that  Lizzie  would 
take  more  interest  in  Mr.  Jack,  influence  him  to  his  ultimate 
advantage,  and  generally  act  the  part  of  good  angel. 

Mrs.  Price  considered  herself  as  one  good  angel,  but  you 
could  not  have  too  many  good  angels — when  there  were  so 
many  bad  angels  about.  She  was  in  fear  lest  Mr.  Jack  might 
be  falling  again  under  sinister  influences,  if  not  into  evil 
ways.  With  admiration  undimmed,  watching  him  closely, 
she  regretted  to  observe  that  he  was  not  working  so  well,  not 
looking  so  well  "in  his  health,"  not  going  on  "so  brave  and 
noble  as  he  done  at  first."  The  master  was  annoyed  with  him 

176 


HILL  RISE  177 

the  other  day — found  him  in  the  Station  bar,  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  unloading  a  truck  of  Yank  doors,  window  frames, 
and  wall  skirtings.  The  railway  station  was  a  dangerous  place 
for  Mr.  Jack:  there  lurked  such  puffy,  blown-out,  bad  angels 
as  Mr.  Lardner. 

And  further,  Mrs.  Gates,  Jack's  landlady,  while  charing 
for  Mrs.  Price,  told  of  other  perilous  influences.  Mrs.  Gates 
related  how  "that  Miss  Barter"  came  up  of  an  evening  to  call 
for  the  lodger,  and  take  him  out  for  a  walk  downtown.  Mrs. 
Gates  thought  such  visits  unladylike,  if  not  improper;  and 
so  did  Mrs.  Price. 

"Who  is  Miss  Barter?"  said  Lizzie  very  coldly. 

"Her  as  has  the  dressmaking  shop,  under  Mr.  Bowling's. 
But  she  come  out  of  the  White  Hart — and  if  I  was  the  ladies, 
I  wouldn't  go  near  her  or  her  shop.  Don't  you  ever  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  her,  miss." 

"I  certainly  shall  not,"  said  Lizzie  contemptuously. 

"You  know  there  used  to  be  a  talk  about  her  and  Mr. 
Jack — though  Mr.  Dowling  speaks  up  for  her  and  says  that 
was  just  talk.  But  what  I  say  is  this:  It's  a  cruel  thing  of 
her  to  go  disturbing  him  after  his  day's  work,  and  forcing 
him  downtown — taking  her  to  the  theatre  and  wasting  his 
hard-earned  shillings — and  bringing  him  into  worse  danger." 

"What  danger?" 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  Price  solemnly,  "I  mean  his  being  led 
astray  by  all  that  wicked  drinking  lot  that  hangs  about  the 
theatre.  When  a  gentleman  is  so  kind  in  his  heart  as  Mr. 
Jack,  he  hasn't  always  the  stren'th  to  say  no — and  then  it's 
one  glass  on  top  of  another  until  he  has  to  be  punished  with 
the  bad  headache  next  day — and  not  fit  for  his  work." 

It  seemed  to  Lizzie  that  scarcely  any  punishment  could 
be  too  severe  for  gentlemen  who  went  to  the  play  with  impu- 
dent and  vulgar  dressmakers.  She  expressed  no  sympathy. 

"He  had  the  headache  the  other  morning,"  Mrs.  Price  con- 
tinued sadly,  "and  he  arst  me  to  give  him  a  pick-me-up  while 
he  was  doing  his  work  at  that  table.  But  I  said:  'No,  Mr. 
Jack.  No  pick-me-up  will  I  get  you — unless  it's  a  cup  of 
tea.'  He  turned  that  off  with  a  joke,  and  said  the  doctors 
had  scared  him  about  tea — and  tea  was  jumpy  stuff  to  take 


178  HILL  RISE 

except  at  tea  time.  That  was  his  joke,"  and  Mrs.  Price  smiled, 
with  affectionate  tolerance.  "He  called  me  Pricey-picey  and 
made  a  face  at  me  and  my  tea — and  then  laugh.  Of  course  I 
had  to  laugh,  too." 

"Had  you?"  said  Lizzie,  without  the  least  smile.  "It 
doesn't  strike  me  as  very  funny." 

"No,  Miss  Lizzie,"  and  Mrs.  Price  became  impressively 
serious  again.  "God  forbid  I  should  see  fun  in  drinking.  But 
I  didn't  mean  I  was  afraid  of  his  ever  taking  it  heavy — like 
to  destroy  him  as  we've  seen  happen  in  this  house — to  our 
sorrow.  But  it's  easy  for  a  gentleman  to  take  more  than's 
properly  good  for  him — when  he's  drawn  into  bad  company." 

"If  he  drinks/'  said  Lizzie  coldly,  "my  father  will  dis- 
charge him." 

"Yes,  Miss  Lizzie,  but  your  father  can't  discharge  Mr. 
Jack's  shedding  of  his  blood  for  him.  .  .  .  And  I  do  say, 
miss,  it'll  be  on  all  our  conscience  if  we  don't  look  after  him 
and  keep  him  steady,  now  he's  thrown  over  all  them  as  ought 
to  look  after  him,  and  put  himself  in  our  hands.  .  .  .  That's 
what  I  say,  Miss  Lizzie";  and  Pricey  said  it  quite  defiantly, 
and  then  moved  towards  the  kitchen  door. 

"I've  no  fear,"  she  added,  turning  again,  "while  he's  here 
along  with  us.  But  it's  the  evenings  when  he  has  no  one  to 
look  after  him — except  it's  that  Miss  Barter.  Who's  Miss 
Barter,  I'd  like  to  know  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Price,  in  a  sudden  burst 
of  indignation.  "What's  he  got  to  do  with  her?  Let  her 
mind  her  pins  and  needles.  She  was  never  a  friend  of  the 
family  up  at  Hill  House — or  it's  news  to  me  if  she  was." 

"Of  course,  she  wasn't." 

"No,  and  not  a  friend  for  him.  Miss  Lizzie,  I've  spoke 
not  to  frighten  you,  only  laying  it  before  you — to  take  more 
interest  and  use  your  influence.  Why  not  give  him  some 
of  your  books  for  him  to  pass  the  time  with  ?  Or  why  not  let 
him  spend  his  evenings  here  innocent  and  happy — talking  to 
the  master,  or  playing  of  a  game  at  the  cards?  You  know 
how  he  used  to  love  the  cards — and  what  a  rare  hand  he  was 
with  them.  .  .  .  You  aren't  angry  for  my  speaking?  But 
I  do  say,  we  shouldn't  neglect  him.  He's  trying  to  do  right, 
and  it's  for  us  to  stren'then  him  as  best  we  can." 


HILL  RISE  179 

Then  Lizzie,  alone  in  the  big  room,  sat  thinking  of  Jack. 
She  had  work  to  do,  but  Mrs.  Price  had  put  her  off  it.  She 
was  making  manifold  copies  of  the  draft  building  agreement 
prepared  by  Mr.  Eaton  the  solicitor.  This  contained  condi- 
tions as  to  construction  of  houses — sixpence  halfpenny  per 
cubic  foot,  etc. — together  with  the  terms  of  the  ninety-nine 
years'  lease  that  Mr.  Crunden  would  grant,  when  the  houses 
were  built.  Copies  of  the  draft  were  sent  to  all  who  seemed 
disposed  to  treat  for  Mr.  Crunden's  eligible  plots.  Jack 
was  always  greedy  for  the  typewritten  copies — could  not  have 
too  many  of  them,  clamoured  for  them,  and  undoubtedly 
squandered  postage  stamps  by  despatching  them  broadcast. 

But  such  extravagance,  as  showing  his  anxiety  to  serve  her 
father,  was  to  his  credit.'  Thinking  of  him  now,  she  consid- 
ered all  things  that  might  be  said  in  his  favour  or  against 
him.  He  was  helping  her  father — or  endeavouring  to  help 
her  father.  That  was  a  thing  enormously  creditable.  But 
what  else?  Eeally,  after  careful  consideration,  what  else 
might  one  say? 

Alas !  no  hero  worthy  of  enthronement  in  Mr.  Mees's  Li- 
brary novels.  If  you  robbed  him  of  all  dream-like  attributes, 
stripped  him  of  splendour  and  mystery,  tumbled  him  out  of 
the  clouds  into  common  working  life,  there  seemed  to  be 
left  but  a  very  ordinary  and  far  from  estimable  personage. 
No  difficulty  in  finding  things  to  his  discredit  and  disgrace — 
dreadful  things;  dark  abysses  into  which  one  scarcely  dared 
to  peer.  What,  for  instance,  could  be  more  utterly  degrading 
than  this  companionship  with  a  reddish-haired,  tight-laced 
dressmaker  flaunting  in  unsold  finery  from  her  shop?  Who 
now  could  be  gratified  by  his  company?  Mr.  Bowling  praised 
him  for  his  friendly  ways  and  freedom  from  class-prejudices. 
That  meant  that  it  was  good  of  him  to  drop  to  the  Crunden 
level  and  seem  happy  and  at  ease  when  he  joined  them  as  a 
supper  guest.  But  when,  still  dropping,  he  shot  past  the 
Crunden  plane  and  you  found  him  side  by  side  with  a  Miss 
Barter  in  the  cheap  seats  of  the  theatre  among  all  the  riff- 
raff of  the  town — found  him,  too,  happy  and  at  ease  there 
also,  what  must  }rou  think? 

Could  anything  be  more  disgraceful?     Yes,  Mrs.  Price,. 


180  HILL  RISE 

opening  the  abysses,  plainly  hinted  at  a  lower  taste  than  the 
taste  for  vulgar  company — the  love  of  fiery  drink.  But  that 
was  a  thing  Lizzie  refused  to  believe.  He  could  not  have 
fallen  so  far  not  only  from  his  place  in  her  silly  dreams  but 
from  his  place  in  her  childish  memories.  In  those  distant 
days  he  had  urged  poor  brother  Dick  to  be  sober  and  wise, 
had  always  seemed  to  be,  in  relation  to  Dick,  a  noble  and 
refining  influence.  Nothing  should  make  her  believe  that 
in  this  matter  the  years  had  taken  all  virtue  from  him.  It 
would  be  too  horrible  a  debasement.  When  Dick  first  drank 
so  much  more  than  was  good  for  him,  Dick  was  an  inex- 
perienced boy.  He  began  to  sin  from  heedlessness.  Every 
excuse  could  be  made  for  unhappy  Dick :  none  could  be  made 
for  one  in  the  prime  of  manhood  who  should  lapse  into  such 
disgusting  vice.  She  would  never  believe  that  Mrs.  Price's 
fear  was  well-founded. 

No,  the  man  who  had  fought  those  half-drunken  and  wholly 
brutal  rioters  could  not  himself  be  a  drunkard.  Her  imag- 
ination kindled  as  she  thought  of  the  famous  fight  against  her 
father's  enemies.  Here  at  least  were  heroic — book-worthy — 
attributes  on  which  one  could  dwell  safely.  That  fight,  as 
described  by  Mr.  Dowling  and  Mrs.  Price — neither  of  whom 
could  claim  to  be  an  eye-witness — was  of  Homeric  grandeur. 
Prowess  as  of  the  old  world-myths  had  been  displayed:  one 
man  defeating  an  army  in  pitched  battle — you  cannot  ask 
of  your  hero  more  than  that. 

In  fact,  the  thing  had  been  less  like  a  general  engagement 
than  the  ancient  duel  of  champions.  Mr.  Fred  Hoyle,  car- 
man from  the  brewery,  a  monstrous  lout  who  led  the  pro- 
cession, was  the  champion  self-chosen  for  the  advancing  horde. 
At  the  head  of  his  troops  he  stepped  forth,  and  breathed  beer 
and  defiance.  Then  Jack  knocked  him  down;  and  when 
he  got  up,  Jack  knocked  him  down  again.  A  friend  and  lieu- 
tenant of  Fred  rushing  in — perhaps  merely  to  pick  up  the 
fallen  giant — received  a  clip  on  the  ear  that  sent  him  stag- 
gering. Another  friend  sprang  back  in  horror  of  such  ear- 
clips.  Still  another  friend  armed  with  a  loose  plank  swung 
it  for  space  and  protection,  wounding  and  disabling  Jack's 
left  hand;  and  then  with  the  useful  plank  escaped  from  the 


HILL  RISE  181 

danger  zone.  Then  Jack  himself  shouted  defiance.  "Come 
on,  you  dirty  blackguards,  if  you  want  any  more.  Come  on, 
the  lot  of  you," — and  his  breath  failed.  He  was  completely 
out  of  condition,  weighing  at  least  two  stone  more  than  his 
correct  fighting  weight:  he  was  puffed,  wounded,  helpless 
really,  but  triumphant.  The  rabble  rout  had  already  begun; 
the  myriad  enemy  quailed,  broke  rank,  turned;  the  effigy 
of  old  Crunden  was  trotting  away.  It  was  in  truth  a  beaten, 
or  demoralised  army  that  streamed  down  the  new  road,  down 
Hill  Road,  and  only  rallied  at  the  bridge  to  tell  bridge 
loungers  the  news.  "Where's  the  p'lice?  Why  don't  the 
p'lice  come?  There's  murder  up  the  hill.  Pore  Fred's  been 
set  upon  and  near  done  for." 

These  were  the  true  crude  facts — not,  of  course,  accurately 
known  to  Lizzie,  who  sat  now  thinking  of  the  more  splendid 
tale  of  almost  miraculous  battle  as  rendered  by  Pricey  and 
Mr.  Bowling. 

Presently,  still  thinking  about  the  glorified  version,  she  be- 
came aware  of  an  accompaniment  to  her  thoughts — a  knock- 
ing and  ringing.  Some  one  at  the  state-entrance  of  the  cot- 
tage vainly  seeking  admittance — some  one  who  had  been 
ringing  the  bell  and  gently  hammering  with  the  knocker  for 
a  considerable  time!  Lizzie  went  herself  to  answer  the  bell: 
it  was  too  bad  to  keep  people  waiting,  and  it  was  annoying 
that  Mrs.  Price  and  Mary  never  by  any  chance  seemed 
to  hear  the  only  important  bell  in  the  house — the  bell  of 
what  was,  ceremoniously,  the  front  door.  But  when  Lizzie, 
doing  Mrs.  Price's  task  for  her,  hastily  opened  the  door,  she 
was  rather  sorry  that  she  had  done  so. 

"Oh,"  said  the  visitor.  "Miss  Crunden.  I  have  called 
to  see  my  son.  Is  he  in — and  disengaged?" 

The  bell-ringer  was  Lady  Vincent,  in  black  bonnet  and 
sable  stole,  standing  with  folded  hands,  looking  severe,  and 
speaking  with  a  distant  manner. 

"No,  Mr.  Vincent  is  not  here  now.  But  I  can  telephone 
to  the  yard — I  think  he  is  there — and  say  you  have  called 
for  him.  Won't  you  come  in?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lady  Vincent.  "I  would  like  to  come 
in  for  a  few  moments — if  vou  will  allow  me.  But  do  not 


182  HILL  RISE 

telephone  for  my  son.  I  would  not,  on  any  account,  disturb 
him  at  his  work."  Then,  in  the  little  hall,  Lady  Vincent 
looked  at  Lizzie  with  the  steady  reflective  gaze  that  even 
Hill  Eise  young  ladies  always  found  so  disconcerting.  "Miss 
Crunden,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "what  is  my  son's 
work?  It  would  be  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  everything  about 
my  son's  work." 

"I  will  tell  you  anything  you  ask  me,"  said  Lizzie.  "Will 
you  come  this  way,  please?"  and  she  ushered  her  visitor  into 
the  parlour. 

"Is  this  the  room  that  my  son  uses — habitually?" 

"No.  He  has  used  it  for  supper  once  or  twice.  But  we 
all  use  the  other  room  now." 

"Then  that  is  the  room  I  wish  to  see.  May  I  go  into 
that  room?" 

"Oh,  certainly;"  and  Lizzie  ushered  the  visitor  into  the 
working-room. 

"It  is  a  very  large  room,"  said  Lady  Vincent,  looking  about 
her.  "Quite  a  large  room.  And  you  all  use  this  together? 
It  is,  I  see,  your  father's  office." 

Glancing  at  the  window,  she  could  now  read  backwards  the 
words  in  large  black  letters  that  showed  with  brutal  straight- 
forward distinctness  when  you  were  outside  the  house:  "Hill 
Eise  Estate  Office."  This  was  the  room  in  which  all  the 
shocking  business  of  destruction  was  carried  on.  With  severe 
disapproval  she  scrutinised  the  map  of  the  estate  that  hung 
on  the  wall,  the  telephone  apparatus,  the  typewriting  machine, 
the  letter-presses,  the  tables  covered  with  papers;  and  all  the 
trade  samples — drain-pipes,  tiles,  wood  paving-blocks,  etc. — 
that  had  accumulated  of  late  in  great  profusion.  When 
Lizzie,  answering  questions,  pointed  out  Mr.  Vincent's  table 
close  to  the  map  and  telephone,  the  severity  vanished  from 
his  mamma's  face.  Lady  Vincent  stood  by  the  table,  and 
examined  the  strange  things  upon  it  with  bright  and  soft- 
ened eyes. 

"Your  father  makes  him  work  very  hard,  I  suppose?" 

"My  father  works  hard  himself,"  said  Lizzie  proudly  and 
affectionately.  "Mr.  Vincent  could  not  assist  him  unless  he 
was  willing  to  work,  too !" 


HILL  RISE  183 

"But  he  is  quite  willing,"  said  Lady  Vincent — "only  too 
willing.  .  .  .  What  is  this,  please?" 

It  was  a  book,  with  counterfoils  and  printed  headings, 
that  lay  open  on  the  table. 

"That,"  said  Lizzie,  "is  the  yard  tally  book;"  and  she  ex- 
plained its  purpose  and  function.  When  materials  were  being 
sent  from  the  yard  to  the  work  in  hand,  Mr.  Jack  entered 
them  in  the  book,  and  gave  the  slip  of  paper  bearing  his 
statement  to  the  outside  foreman.  That  they  called  a  "yard 
tally";  and  the  foreman,  having  received  his  tally,  was  then 
held  accountable  for  the  use  of  the  materials.  "I  don't  know 
why  the  book  is  here,"  Lizzie  added.  "It  ought  to  be  at 
the  yard — but  perhaps  Mr.  Vincent  has  made  a  mistake,  and 
has  brought  the  book  up  for  my  father  to  look  at." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  he  would  make  a  mistake.  My  son  is 
very  clever." 

"But  Mr.  Vincent  cannot  avoid  making  mistakes  now  and 
then.  Of  course,  he  has  had  no  experience." 

"He  kept  the  accounts  for  his  regiment — or  for  his  com- 
pany in  the  regiment.  I  think  you  will  find  him  quite  capa- 
ble of  keeping  your  father's  accounts." 

Lizzie  smiled. 

"He  is  not  called  upon  to  do  that.  Builders'  accounts  are 
very  intricate.  My  father  does  all  that  himself.  This  is  not 
what  we  call  an  account  book." 

"Oh !  .  .  .     And  what  are  these  written  papers  ?" 

Lizzie  answered  all  questions,  and  Lady  Vincent  at  last 
thanked  her. 

"It  is  kind  of  you,  Miss  Crunden,  to  have  let  me  see  things. 
I  did  so  want  to  see  things  for  myself — but  I  must  not  waste 
your  time  further." 

"I  can  spare  the  time — if  there  is  anything  else  you  wish 
to  know." 

"Thank  you.  But  I  must  not  ask  you  any  more — I  think  I 
ought  not  to  ask  you  more — and  that  I  could  not  expect  you 
to  tell  me— if  I  did." 

"I  will  tell  you  anything  I  know." 

Lady  Vincent  favoured  Lizzie  with  another  reflective 
scrutiny. 


184  HILL  RISE 

"I  am  very  anxious  about  my  son.  His  employment  here 
has  caused  us  the  greatest  anxiety — and  pain.  In  our  opinion 
it  is  not  fitting — but  we  were  unable  to  prevent  it.  However, 
I  am  proud  to  think  of  his  working  so  well.  He  is  working 
well.  You  admit  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes;  I  believe  my  father  is  quite  satisfied  with  him." 

"It  is  not  the  work  itself — although  of  course  we  should 
not  have  chosen  it.  No.  But  it  is — all  the  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances. Your  father's  avowed  motive  to  bring  ruin  and 
humiliation " 

"My  father's  only  motive  in  employing  Mr.  Vincent  was 
kindness;"  and  Lizzie  flushed  hotly. 

"You  are  quite  right  to  defend  your  father — and  I  have  no 
desire  to  speak  harshly  of  him  or  his  motives.  I  do  not  wish 
to  speak  of  him  at  all.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  allowing  me 
to  come  in,  and  now  I  will  go.  Thank  you ;"  and  with  much 
dignity  Lady  Vincent  walked  to  the  parlour  door. 

But  in  the  little  parlour  her  dignity  forsook  her,  and  she 
began  to  ask  more  questions. 

"You  said  he  supped  with  you  here.  Does  he  have  his 
supper  with  you  every  night?" 

"Oh,  no!"' 

"Then  where  does  he  have  his  supper?  Why  does  he  not 
come  to  us — and  dine  with  us?  If  he  would  only  do  that; 
he  would  remove  so  much  of  our  anxiety — and  pain.  Miss 
Crunden,  he  should  not  be  here — or  at  that  dreadful  cot- 
tage. .  .  .  Miss  Crunden,  I  do  think  it  is  fine  of  him  to  work. 
When  it  began,  I  thought  it  would  be  only  temporary;  but 
it  goes  on.  He  goes  on  working — and  it  would  make  me  both 
happy  and  proud  if  only  the  circumstances  were  different." 

And  Lady  Vincent  with  some  emotion  explained  her  views. 
Why  should  her  son  live  in  a  horrid  workman's  cottage  ?  Why 
could  he  not  live  at  home  in  the  Eedmarsh  Road  with  his 
father  and  mother,  and  go  out  to  his  work  of  a  morning 
as  other  workers  did? 

"If  he  would  only  live  with  us,  I  think  my  husband  would 
be  reconciled — even  to  what  Jack  is  doing  now — as  your 
father's  clerk.  His  present  mode  of  life  is  not  fitting,  Miss 
Crunden.  It  is  a  cause  of  scandal  and  pain.  Everybody  must 


HILL  RISE  185 

say  he  has  quarrelled  with  us — cast  us  off,  and  thrown  in  his 
lot  with  your  father.  Of  course,  I  can't  expect  you  to  agree 
with  me." 

"But  I  do  agree  with  you." 

"You  do?  Oh,  Miss  Crunden,  I  am  delighted  to  hear 
you  say  so." 

"I  think,"  said  Lizzie,  blushing,  "that  it  would  be  a 
wiser  and  better  arrangement  if  Mr.  Vincent  went  back  to 
you  every  evening — and  if  he  lived  with  you,  and  not  at  Mrs. 
Gates'." 

Miss  Barter  could  scarcely  pay  evening  calls  then !  In  the 
Redmarsh  Road  he  would  be  safe  among  his  own  good  angels ; 
Mrs.  Price  could  be  easy  in  her  mind;  and  Lizzie  need  not 
take  any  more  interest  in  his  out-of-work  hours. 

But  now  Lady  Vincent,  with  beaming  eyes  and  a  manner, 
that  had  suddenly  changed  to  cordiality,  appealed  to  Lizzie 
not  to  leave  off  thinking  about  her  son.  Her  appeal  was  in 
substance  Mrs.  Price's  appeal.  Once  again  Lizzie  was  begged 
to  take  interest  and  use  her  influence. 

"Influence  him,  if  you  can,  to  return  to  us.  You  will  be 
doing  us  a  great  kindness — and  I  shall  be  very  grateful  to 
you.  .  .  .  And  I  promise  not  to  try  to  set  him  against 
his  work.  No,  I  am  too  proud  of  him  to  do  that.  But  I  want 
him  back  with  us.  ...  There  are  reasons.  There  is  one 
reason — which  I  do  not  care  to  speak  of — that  makes  me  most 
anxious  to  have  him  at  home." 

Again  Lizzie  blushed  hotly.  What  was  the  reason  that  Lady 
Vincent  did  not  care  to  speak  of? 

"Miss  Crunden.  I  will  speak  of  it.  You  have  received 
me  so  kindly — you  take  such  a  right  view  of  things — that  I 
think  now  that  I  cannot  be  wrong  in  trusting  your  discre- 
tion— that  I  should  be  wrong  not  to  trust  you;"  and  then, 
after  hesitating,  Lady  Vincent  asked  her  final  question. 

"Miss  Crunden,  does  he  peg  ?" 

"Peg?" 

"You  don't  understand?" 

"No." 

"It  is  slang,"  said  Lady  Vincent  gravely.  "I  am  glad,  Miss 
Crunden,  that  you  do  not  know  the  expression.  I  meant  this — 


186  HILL  RISE 

you  have  so  many  opportunities  of  observing  him:  Have  you 
observed  that — between  meals — he  takes  glasses  of  whiskey 
and  soda  water — or  anything  else?" 

Lizzie  understood  now.  His  own  mother  shared  Mrs. 
Price's  fear.  But  still  Lizzie  would  not  believe  that  there 
could  be  any  basis  for  the  fear.  Whatever  people  said,  she 
would  never  believe  that. 

"It  would  be  a  mistaken  kindness,  Miss  Crunden,  if  you 
encouraged  him  in  the  habit.  It  is  only  a  habit — nothing 
more." 

"He  does  not  practise  the  habit  here,"  said  Lizzie  firmly, 
"and  he  never  shall.  I  promise  we  will  do  all  in  our  power 
to  discourage  him." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Crunden,  thank  you.  This  has  been 
my  great  anxiety  always.  It  is  painful  to  speak  of — but  I 
lie  awake  at  night  thinking  of  it,  and  I  am  glad  I  have 
spoken.  .  .  .  And  one  more  word — in  exerting  your  good 
influence — I  am  sure  now  it  is  all  good — do  not  let  him  think 
you  are  acting  on  my  behalf.  I  hate  deception — of  any  kind ; 
but  if  he  fancied  your  advice  was  prompted  by  us,  it  might 
lose  its  effect." 

That  same  afternoon  Lizzie  tested  the  effect  of  her  good 
advice,  and  found  it  to  be  imperceptible. 

The  lamps  had  been  lit,  the  curtains  drawn,  when  Jack 
came  for  his  tea.  He  was  in  the  gayest  spirits,  very  much 
pleased  with  himself  and  everybody  else. 

"Madam,"  said  Jack,  "to  you  I  humbly  bow  and  bend,"  and 
he  hung  up  his  hat,  and  went  to  his  accustomed  place.  "Your 
father  is  coming  up  from  Eaton's  directly.  Luck.  Good 
luck  to-day.  We  have  disposed  of  Lot  Number  5." 

He  had  pulled  out  a  drawer  and  was  looking  for  Mr. 
Bowling's  paint-brush  and  the  red  paint. 

"I'll  paint  it  on  the  map,"  he  said  gaily.  "We'll  paint  the 
map  red  for  old  Bowling  and  save  him  the  trouble.  Where's 
the  water?  Here  we  are;"  and  with  the  greatest  satisfaction 
he  painted  another  red  patch  on  the  big  map  to  mark  the  lat- 
est success.  "There,  Miss  Lizzie,  in  a  year  from  now  we'll 
have  painted  the  whole  map  red.  ...  I  did  this  off  my  own 


HILL  RISE  187 

bat.  It  was  a  chap  I'd  written  to  myself.  I  made  the  appoint- 
ment, met  him  at  the  station,  and  never  let  go  of  him  till 
I  had  fixed  it  up  and  marched  him  into  Eaton's  room  to  sign 
the  draft.  .  .  .  Miss  Lizzie,  you  don't  praise  me,  but  really 
and  truly  I  do  deserve  a  pat  on  the  back." 

"I  am  sure  my  father  will  be  much  obliged  to  you." 

"But  aren't  you  obliged,  too?  It's  a  great  thing  to  keep 
moving.  .  .  .  Miss  Lizzie,  I  wonder  why  you  are  so  down 
upon  me.  I'd  like  to  think  I  was  giving  satisfaction  to  every- 
body." 

Then  Lizzie,  seeing  her  chance,  took  it.  If  Mr.  Vincent 
desired  to  satisfy  every  one,  he  would  content  his  parents  by 
making  his  home  with  them  in  the  Eedmarsh  Road.  She 
advised  him  to  do  this.  But  Jack  promptly  and  flatly  rejected 
the  advice.  He  must  continue  his  work. 

"It  would  make  no  difference  to  your  work." 

"Yes,  it  would.  It  would  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  myself 
and  with  everything  else." 

Lizzie  repeated  and  amplified  her  advice.  She  was  grate- 
ful for  the  assistance  given  to  her  father,  but  Mr.  Vincent 
had  a  duty  to  his  own  father:  there  was  something  harsh, 
unkind,  undignified  even,  in  his  complete  withdrawal  from 
his  own  people.  It  made  the  world  talk. 

Jack  laughed. 

"The  voice,"  he  said,  "is  Miss  Lizzie's  voice ;  but  the  words 
are  mamma's.  Miss  Lizzie,  my  dear  mamma  has  been  getting 
at  you.  She  has  talked  you  over." 

"Yes,  Lady  Vincent  has  talked  to  me.  But  I  think  it  my- 
self;  I  have  always  thought  it." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Jack.  "It  seems  to  you  that 
I  have  done  a  dirty  trick  in  chucking  them — when  the  cash 
ran  out.  That's  what  people  say.  But  what  does  it  matter 
what  people  say?"  and  Jack  became  serious  and  thoughtful. 
"Miss  Lizzie,  on  my  honour,  it's  all  right.  My  people  are 
as  right  as  rain — and  I'm  fonder  of  them  now  than  I  ever 
was.  You  needn't  pity  them.  My  Guv'nor  is  shaking  down 
quite  comfortably; — he  has  done  with  shams  and  pretences, 
and  he  finds  himself  all  the  better  for  it.  Besides,"  and  he 
laughed  once  more,  "things  will  work  out.  In  time,  Sir 


188  HILL  RISE 

John  may  be  a  swell  again.  Sir  John  has  great  expectations ;" 
and  he  came  from  his  table  and  stood  by  Lizzie's  chair. 

"Miss  Lizzie — for  old  sake's  sake — don't  think  meanly  of 
me.  I  know  what  I'm  about.  What  I'm  doing  is  life  or 
death  to  me."  He  said  this  very  seriously;  then,  before  he 
continued,  paused,  smiling.  "It  is  a  very  remarkable  thing, 
too — a  man  being  born  again — at  my  age.  But  that's  just 
it.  I  am  trying  to  win  back  all  that  I'd  let  slip — strength, 
self-reliance,  manhood.  I  can  only  do  it  my  own  way — by 
depending  on  myself  alone." 

And  then,  for  the  third  time,  Lizzie  heard  the  same  appeal. 
Mr.  Jack  himself  asked  her  to  take  an  interest  in  him. 

"But  I'm  not  too  proud  to  accept  help — from  your  father, 
or  from  you.  If  you  want  to  help  me — and  I  wish  you 
would, — don't  send  me  back  to  mamma  and  papa — but  keep 
me  here,  and  keep  my  neck  well  into  the  collar.  Think  for  me 
that  way ;"  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  bowed. 

"Miss  Lizzie,  you  won't  take  your  cue.  You  were  kinder  to 
me  in  the  old  days.  You  can't  remember  your  line.  'Nay,  sir, 
I  take  you  not  to  be  my  friend.'  That  was  it.  You  don't  say 
it,  Miss  Lizzie — but  you  act  it — and  I  often  wonder 
why.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Crunden,  returning,  interrupted  the  conversation.  Mr. 
Crunden  was  jubilant,  rubbing  his  hands  and  chuckling — 
pleased  with  himself,  pleased  with  his  clerk,  pleased  with 
everybody. 

"Paint  it  up,"  he  cried  jovially.  "Ah — you've  done  it 
a'ready.  That's  right,  sir.  Sharp's  the  word,  quick's  the  mo- 
tion. You  tackled  our  friend  proper.  .  .  .  Liz,  Lot  5  gone, 
and  more  to  follow.  .  .  .  And  now  we'll  pass  on  to  some- 
thing else.  Something  I  want  to  discuss  over  our  tea.  It's 
this:  Griggs  have  written  to  me  again  very  pressing — they 
want  to  hold  a  MarTcee  sale  on  the  estate.  I  don't  say  yes  to 
the  idea,  and  I  don't  say  no.  I  want  to  discuss  it — before  I 
put  on  my  considering  cap." 


CHAPTER  XV 

JACK  had  said  it  is  a  great  thing  to  keep  moving;  and, 
although  so  devoid  of  experience  in  relation  to  land  and  build- 
ing speculations,  he  had  here  undoubtedly  stumbled  upon  a 
prime  truth.  For  complete  and  striking  success  with  any  land 
development  scheme,  there  must  be  no  delay :  you  must  march 
forward  to  the  appointed  goal  without  long  halts,  or  even 
frequent  brief  pauses  occasioned  by  meeting  unforeseen  ob- 
stacles. Time  is  money  all  the  way.  Time,  therefore, — time 
to  gain  or  time  to  lose, — was  the  matter  to  be  first  thought 
of  whenever  Mr.  Crunden  put  on  his  considering  cap. 

This  was  his  position  financially.  Such  backing  as  was 
necessary  he  obtained  from  the  Medford  District  United  Bank. 
He  could  have  raised  money  through  solicitors  who  make  it 
their  business  to  finance  builders,  etc.,  but  he  had  seen  too 
much  of  the  trouble  and  discomfiture  that  come  with  that  form 
of  support.  Bank  aid  is  dear;  but  it  is  the  safest  aid  you  can 
seek,  and,  for  a  sound  operation,  it  is  the  cheapest  in  the 
end.  To  his  good  Bank  friends  he  had  gone  then,  after 
boldly  bidding  thirty-seven  thousand  pounds  for  Hill  Rise.  He 
was  worth  twenty-six  to  twenty-seven  thousand  himself;  all 
else  must  be  supplied  by  the  Bank.  He  began  to  sell  his  prop- 
erty without  an  hour's  delay:  realising  all  his  stocks  and 
shares,  and  going  slow  only  with  his  ground  rents,  which, 
of  course,  cannot  be  sold  in  a  tearing  hurry.  He  soon  had 
twenty-two  thousand  in  hand;  and  the  balance  of  fifteen 
thousand,  with  a  further  five  thousand  for  working  capital, 
he  borrowed  from  the  Bank  on  the  security  of  the  title  deeds 
of  Hill  Rise. 

Nothing  could  have  been  better  than  the  treatment  of  Mr. 
Crunden  by  the  Bank  authorities.  A  solid  man  to  deal  with, 
no  risk  to  them — why  not?  They  fell  in  with  all  his  views; 
and  this  was  the  method  adopted  for  the  perfectly  legitimate 

189 


190  HILL  RISE 

transaction.  The  Bank  agreed  to  let  the  loan  take  the  form 
of  an  overdraft,  with  a  maximum  of  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
which  maximum  was  to  be  reduced  by  minimums  of  one  thou- 
sand every  three  months;  but  Mr.  Crunden  was  free  to  pay 
off  as  much  as  he  liked  whenever  he  liked.  The  Bank  com- 
pleted the  purchase  for  him,  and  received  the  deeds  from  his 
London  solicitor.  Then  such  copies  were  taken  as  Mr.  Eaton 
required  for  preparing  conveyances  of  the  building  plots; — 
and  then  the  deeds  went  down  into  the  Bank's  strong  and 
<lark  room,  never  to  emerge  and  rise  into  the  light  again  until 
the  bank  book  showed  Mr.  Crunden's  balance  on  the  right- 
hand  instead  of  the  left-hand  page. 

The  deeds  would  soon  come  out — Mr.  Crunden  felt  no 
qualms;  Mr.  Bowling  was  bulling  over  with  enthusiasm. 
By  realisation  of  the  remainder  of  his  old  ground  rents,  Mr. 
Crunden  would  steadily  reduce  the  overdraft;  by  sale  of 
eligible  plots,  of  all  buildings  that  he  himself  put  up,  of  each 
new  ground  lease  as  created,  he  would  make  further  speedy 
reductions;  and,  washing  one  hand  with  the  other,  wipe  off 
the  balance  and  get  clear  again.  In  two  years — if  all  went 
well — he  should  be  able  to  say  to  the  United  Bank:  Good- 
morning  and  many  thanks  to  you. 

Then  would  come  the  grateful  task  of  bringing  home  once 
more  his  own  deep-sunk  money ;  and  then,  finally,  the  reaping 
of  the  golden  harvest  of  clean  profit.  A  big  profit  hanging 
to  it — something  really  big !  "You  see,"  said  the  enthusiastic 
Bowling,  "we  can't  go  wrong,  because  of  the  tremendous  wide 
margin.  That's  what  attracted  me  from  the  first." 

Second  only  to  time,  as  a  matter  for  consideration  in  every 
development  scheme,  is  the  wideness  of  your  margin.  In 
this  scheme — after  careful  estimate  of  all  conceivable  adverse 
conditions — the  margin  seemed  of  magnificent  wideness. 

Here  were  forty  acres  from  which  you  must  subtract  eleven 
acres  occupied  by  the  Hill  Eise  houses  and  gardens.  That 
left  you  twenty-nine  acres  of  open  ground,  from  which  again 
you  must  subtract  five  acres  for  your  roads;  and  after  that, 
you  had  twenty-four  acres  as  mapped  out  by  Bowling  into 
two  hundred  and  six  most  attractive  plots.  Bowling  calcu- 
lated that  the  land  all  through  would  carry  without  the  small- 


HILL  RISE  191 

est  difficulty  an  average  ground  rent  of  one  hundred  pounds 
per  acre.  That  is  to  say :  when  the  twenty-four  acres  were 
covered,  you  would  have  created  ground  rents  to  the  pleasant 
tune  of  two  thousand  four  hundred  per  annum,  which,  when 
sold  at  twenty-five  years'  purchase,  would  bring  the  tidy  cap- 
ital sum  of  sixty  thousand  pounds.  Thus  your  margin  smiled 
widely  upon  you :  twenty  thousand  pounds  of  profit,  minus 
interest  on  money  borrowed,  loss  of  interest  on  money  sunk, 
cost  of  roads,  law  charges,  etc.,  but  plus — and  what  a  plus  it 
was ! — the  twenty  houses  and  eleven  acres  of  Hill  Eise. 

Then  indeed  would  arrive  the  golden  epoch.  The  real 
battle  would  be  over:  with  all  his  money  safe  home  again, 
Crunden  could  quietly  demolish  and  develop  Hill  Eise  itself. 
First  one  side,  then  the  other — the  even  numbers  first  should 
be  given  to  the  house-breakers ;  the  ground  should  be  cleared  ; 
the  lovely  attractive  strip — the  cream  of  the  whole  thing, — 
with  its  unique  frontage  to  the  common,  should  be  mapped 
out  in  narrowest  plots,  let  to  the  best  builders,  and  adorned 
with  neatest,  nattiest,  most  up-to-date  little  villas — electric 
bells,  tiled  bathrooms,  no  basement.  This,  indeed,  would  be 
a  leisurely  luxurious  task — an  easy  happy  time  of  all  plus,  no 
minus :  everything  coming  in,  nothing  going  out. 

Mr.  Crunden  by  no  means  accepted  Mr.  Bowling's  glitter- 
ing figures;  he  made  heavy  discounts  for  temperamental 
enthusiasm ;  he  weighed  all  things  in  his  own  mental  balance. 
The  considering  cap  was  worn  by  night  and  day  before  he 
decided  to  take  the  great  plunge.  He  knew,  far  better  than 
Bowling,  what  loss  of  interest  on  capital  sometimes  means.  It 
begins  as  a  mischievous  little  pilferer,  but  with  time  enough 
it  swells  into  a  most  monstrous  thief,  taking  your  all.  The 
public  never  thinks  about  loss  of  interest;  and  thus  men  may 
be  envied  for  making  a  fortune  when  in  fact  they  are  spend- 
ing one.  Nevertheless,  he  thought  he  saw  his  way  clear  to  the 
end  of  the  journey  and  a  substantial  reward.  His  own  esti- 
mate of  the  time  required  was  five  years  at  the  worst.  He 
thought  he  had  foreseen  all  that  could  possibly  occur  at  the 
worst.  "At  the  worst"  was  his  maxim  and  watchword,  and, 
satisfied  that  the  worst  was  good  enough,  he  started  boldly 
and  resolutely. 


192  HILL  RISE 

He  must  open  his  yard  and  build  what  are  known  as  decoys. 
Builders  are  timid  adventurers;  they  like  to  build  where 
others  are  building;  you  must  lure  them  on  to  new  ground; 
not  drive  them.  He  would  build  a  few  rows  of  cottages — 
always  saleable,  and  then  a  few  decoy  houses  here  and  there; 
and  then,  say  in  two  years,  he  could  close  the  yard.  Mean- 
while, during  this  early  stage,  the  money  poured  out.  Three 
thousand  already  spent  on  roads,  two  thousand  and  more 
absorbed  by  the  unfinished  cottages,  overdraft  costing  a  thou- 
sand a  year,  all  income-producing  stocks  and  shares  converted 
into  vacant  and  unremunerative  ground: — everything  was 
progressing  well,  slowly,  perhaps,  though  as  well  as  could  be 
expected;  but  here  were  solid  enough  items  to  set  down  to 
capital  account. 

And  already  the  unforeseen  was  occurring.  The  bed-rock 
itself  on  which  Cowling  founded  the  scheme  had  shifted.  No 
available  building  land:  building  land  sorely  needed,  but 
not  a  yard  to  be  obtained.  That  was  the  very  foundation  of 
the  scheme ;  and  it  had  been  knocked  a  little  sideways  already 
by  the  fact  that  Medford  had  obtained  other  building  land — 
ten  acres  of  it,  at  Hill  House.  Who  could  have  foreseen 
the  sale  of  Hill  House?  In  lesser  matters  the  unforeseen 
confronted  one.  Dowling  had  always  counted  on  the  rents  of 
Hill  Rise;  and  these  were  promptly  failing.  Whenever  the 
unforeseen  made  itself  prominent,  Mr.  Dowling  always  said 
"Tut,  tut!"  and  already,  before  five  months  were  gone,  he 
had  said  it  very  frequently. 

"Yes,  I  must  confess,  things  are  going  slow." 

"Damned  slow,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  once,  with  a  loud 
grunt. 

"But  it's  all  right.    It  will  be  all  right  in  the  end." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  resolutely.  "Though 
I  believe  now  it  will  take  longer  than  I  thought — and  a  great 
deal  longer  than  you  thought." 

In  these  circumstances  Mr.  Crunden  hesitated  to  dismiss 
the  proposal  of  Messrs.  Griggs  without  discussion. 

It  occurred  to  these  smartest  and  most  thoughtful  of  auc- 
tioneers that,  having  sold  the  estate  once,  they  should  now 
sell  it  again  and  earn  a  second  commission.  If  Mr.  Crunden 


HILL  RISE  193 

favoured  this  notion,  they  proposed  to  erect  a  large  marquee 
on  the  ground  itself,  advertise  the  sale  handsomely,  secure 
railway  saloons  or  a  special  train,  issue  invitation  cards 
and  return  tickets,  and  bring  down  under  their  personal  super- 
intendence a  heavy  load  of  "likely  buyers."  After  such  a 
luncheon  as  Mr.  Crunden  might  be  disposed  to  offer,  the 
bidding  would  be  animated,  and  Mr.  Crunden's  numbered 
lots  would  go  off  like  hot  cakes.  Hot  cakes  is  the  traditional 
simile:  indeed  it  has  become  almost  a  technical  term.  Dow- 
ling  had  often  used  the  expression,  and  now  Griggs  promised 
and  vowed  that  hot-cake  speed  should  be  attained  if  Mr.  Crun- 
den would  give  them  their  starting  signal. 

"We  have,"  they  declared,  "proved  these  Marquee  sales, 
as  conducted  by  us,  to  be  most  popular  and  efficacious  all  over 
the  country.  We  shall  be  glad  to  tender  an  estimate  for  pre- 
liminary expenses  and  to  quote  lowest  terms  for  our  own 
charges."  And,  proceeding  to  their  strongest  argument,  they 
urged  Mr.  Crunden  to  take  Time  by  the  forelock  and  get  rid 
of  as  much  of  his  land  as,  with  the  utmost  push,  might  be 
possible,  before  the  London  and  Suburban  Trust  could  glut 
the  market  with  the  land  they  had  recently  acquired. 

"We  may  say,"  continued  Mr.  Griggs,  "that  this  company 
are  rapidly  concluding  the  very  large  operations  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Croydon,  which  have  hitherto  kept  them  fully 
occupied.  But  it  has  come  to  our  knowledge  that  at  an  early 
date  the  Company  intend  to  give  undivided  attention  to  the 
development  of  their  Medford  estate,  which,  as  we  need  not 
remind  you,  is  immediately  contiguous  to  your  own.  We 
are  most  desirous,  therefore,  that  you  should  be  the  first 
in  the  field  with  a  Marquee  sale." 

This  argument  possessed  great  strength.  No  one  could 
doubt  that  Griggs  would  gladly  organise  a  Marquee  sale  for 
Crunden's  rivals,  if  with  the  resources  at  their  command  they 
could  not  do  the  thing  for  themselves.  Time  was  all- 
important;  and  at  last,  after  much  discussion  and  thought, 
Mr.  Crunden  said,  Yes.  But,  ere  he  irrevocably  committed 
himself  with  Griggs,  Jack  Vincent  was  instructed  to  write 
to  them,  pointing  out  that  the  depth  of  winter  is  not  season- 
able for  al  fresco  entertainments,  and  demanding  an  assur- 


194  HILL  RISE 

ance  that  Marquee  sales  had  been  tried  and  had  met  with 
success  at  this  period  of  the  year. 

"Yes,"  said  Griggs,  gladly  giving  the  assurance.  They 
would  use  their  winter  Marquee  with  solid  boarded  floor, 
patent  stoves — no  flimsy,  draughty  tent  in  which  you  might 
catch  your  death  of  cold,  but  a  spacious  canvas  hall  in  which 
you  would  be  snug  and  warm  as  in  your  own  drawing-room. 
"We  suggest,"  said  Griggs,  "that  your  Mr.  Vincent  meet  our 
representative,  who  will  visit  Medford  to-morrow,  and  settle 
all  details." 

Mr.  Crunden  had  said  Yes,  and  henceforth  the  matter 
seemed  to  pass  out  of  his  hands.  He  was  in  the  position  of 
the  rich  kind  host  who  is  about  to  give  a  party,  and  who  has 
assistants  to  save  him  all  trouble.  His  assistants  would  see 
to  it  that  the  party  was  a  success.  Griggs'  representative 
complimented  him  on  possessing  a  really  able  assistant  in  Jack. 
"Your  Mr.  Vincent  is  a  most  knowledgeable  gentleman;  he 
takes  up  all  our  ideas,  and  we  shall  not  worry  you  further, 
sir.  We  shall  look  to  him  as  your  deputy."  Jack,  as  deputy, 
threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  labour  of  preparation  for 
the  party,  and  said  he  thought  the  whole  thing  the  greatest 
lark. 

"I  call  it  a  ripping  idea,  sir;  and  you're  a  true  sportsman 
to  go  in  for  it.  We'll  paint  half  the  map  red  in  one  jolly, 
friendly  day." 

And  always,  as  it  came  nearer,  the  party  grew  in  size  and 
splendour.  Griggs  first  said  they  could  advantageously  place 
one  hundred  invitations;  then  it  was  one  hundred  and  fifty; 
then  two  hundred.  Bowling  with  freedom  was  inviting 
"likely"  London  people.  Jack,  in  correspondence  with  in- 
quirers, was  issuing  at  least  twenty-five  invitations.  No  one 
in  Medford  was  to  be  asked — not  one  citizen.  The  host  had 
laid  down  that  rule  for  the  party,  and  he  grunted  scornfully 
if  one  spoke  of  breaking  the  rule.  "I  don't  want  'em  to  come 
here  and  eat  my  victuals,  and  then  throw  stones  at  me  behind 
my  back."  But  he  was  forced  to  make  exceptions.  Without 
abating  their  attitude  of  censure  and  disapproval,  several 
citizens  formally  applied  for  invitations.  Mr.  Hope  of  the 
Advertiser  wished  to  be  present;  Mr.  Mees  of  the  Weekly 


HILL  RISE  195 

Bulletin  claimed  admission;  and  one  or  two  more  were  com- 
ing. Old  Selby  called  at  King's  Cottage  and  craved  tickets 
"for  self  and  wife."  "It  will  be  a  treat  for  me  poor  wife, 
and  God  knows  'tis  cruelly  hard  on  a  young  woman  to  get  no 
treats  from  year's  end  to  year's  end."  The  host  endeavoured 
to  refuse  the  honour  of  Mrs.  Selby's  company;  it  was  a  man's 
party;  no  ladies  were  invited.  "Come,  now,  young  Crunden, 
ye'll  not  grudge  me  poor  young  wife  a  seat  at  your  public 
luncheon  table.  .  .  .  Tha'anks,  young  Crunden.  Ye  were 
always  a  good  la'ad;  I  knew  your  fa'ather." 

In  relation  to  the  luncheon  itself,  Jack  had  been  most 
active. 

"Let  'em  have  a  good  substantial  snack,"  said  the  host. 

"A  cold  spread,  I  suppose,"  said  Jack.  "But  what  about 
some  hot  soup  to  begin  with?  Griggs  ask  for  the  hot  soup,, 
sir.  Shall  I  get  two  estimates — with  the  soup,  and  with- 
out it?" 

And  day  by  day  the  luncheon  had  waxed  in  importance 
and  pomp.  Now  all  was  settled:  the  host  would  not  be 
shamed  by  a  beggarly  board.  It  was  to  be  a  hot  luncheon  with 
cold  regalia,  to  be  done  in  tip-top  style  by  Bob  Drake  of  the 
White  Hart  at  four  shillings  a  head  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
head  certain:  i.e.,  £50  down  anyhow,  and  per  capita  for 
"chances"  thereafter.  Jack  of  course  would  count  heads  him- 
self, and  check  Bob's  counting.  Jack  would  also  count  bottles, 
and  guard  them,  and  give  them  out,  etc.  Bob  was  not  doing 
the  wine. 

"Will  you,  sir,"  asked  Jack  one  day,  "will  you  change  your 
mind  and  give  them  champagne  after  all  ?" 

"I  have  told  you  I  won't." 

"I  know,  sir ;  but  Griggs  go  on  worrying  me  about  it.  They 
say  it's  always  expected,  and  it's  always  efficacious.  They 
had  it  at  their  Herne  Bay  sale  when  the  lots  went  off  like 
hot  cakes." 

How  can  a  host,  wishing  his  party  to  be  a  success,  decline 
the  advice  of  party  experts?  It  was  plain  that  Jack  believed 
in  the  efficacy  of  champagne,  although  he  was  loath  to  lead  his 
patron  into  unnecessary  expense. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "one  can  get  good  cheap  brands — really 


196  HILL  RISE 

cheap,  and  yet  quite  good  enough — all  froth  and  sparkle,  you 
know.  There  was  an  excellent  wine  we  used  in  our  militia — 
for  race-meetings — Jodeler.  That  was  the  name — not  more 
than  forty  bob  a  dozen — Jodeler." 

However  it  was  discovered  that  Jodeler  was  now  extinct. 
This  good  wine  had  been  permitted  to  vanish  from  wine- 
merchants'  lists:  no  more  was  Jodeler  procurable.  But  an- 
other brand,  Eosencrantz,  had  come  to  the  front — even  better 
than  vanished  Jodeler.  Eosencrantz,  Jack  found,  was  in  all 
respects  suitable  to  the  occasion.  Authorised  by  Mr.  Crunden 
he  ordered  large  quantities  of  Eosencrantz,  and  he  now  always 
spoke  of  the  coming  event  as  "Champagne  Day." 

"Champagne  Day  will  soon  be  here  now,  Pricey-picey.  We 
are  going  to  give  them  fizz,  and  then  they  are  going  to  paint 
the  map  red  for  us." 

It  was  perhaps  unfortunate  for  Jack  that,  while  busily 
making  arrangements  for  this  great  Saturday,  he  should  have 
been  drawn  into  association  with  some  of  his  old  companions. 
He  was  compelled  often  to  go  to  the  White  Hart,  strictly 
on  business,  for  interviews  with  his  caterer,  Bob  Drake;  and 
here  in  the  old  haunt  he  met  the  old  loafing  friends.  Here, 
from  Mr.  Eldgworth,  Charlie  Padfield,  etc.,  he  heard  all 
about  the  "Merry  Girls' "  dinner,  and  was  implored  to  be  of 
the  dinner. 

The  "Merry  Girls' "  Company  was  about  to  pay  its  tenth 
return  flying  visit :  there  would  be  morning  and  evening  per- 
formance by  this  talented  troupe  on  the  day  of  the  sale; 
and  their  staunch  admirers  had  decided  to  give  the  loved 
artists  a  dinner  at  the  White  Hart  between  the  shows.  Miss 
Daisy  Dolfin — that  old  favourite — was  no  longer  in  the  Com- 
pany, but  her  place  had  been  taken  by  Miss  Fay  Flinders, 
who  was  as  good,  if  not  better — "quite  all  right."  "Fay  will 
be  here,  Jack;  we  shall  all  be  here;  and  you  must  come,  Jack. 
You  really  must — just  to  show  you're  alive,  and  aren't  quite 
out  of  your  mind."  But  Jack  said  no:  he  could  not  accept 
another  engagement  for  Champagne  Day. 

Then,  as  Mrs.  Price  would  have  expressed  it,  "he  was  over- 
persuaded.  Padfield,  Eidgworth,  and  others,  putting  their 
stupid  heads  together,  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  old  Jack 


HILL  RISE  197 

really  wanted  to  come,  but,  poor  beggar,  could  not  afford  the 
treat;  and  with  blundering  generosity  they  offered  to  relieve 
him  of  his  share  in  the  bill.  "We  do  want  you,  Jack — and 
we'll  pay  your  shot  for  you.  We'll  put  you  on  the  same  footing 
as  the  'Merry  Girls'  themselves." 

Jack  flushed,  and  said:  "Thanks.  I'll  pay  my  own  shot. 
Yes,  I'll  try  to  come — and  I'll  stand  the  wine  for  the  lot 
of  you.  I'll  send  it  in,  and  you  must  arrange  with  Drake 
about  corkage." 

At  the  moment,  it  seemed  the  right  thing  to  say  and  to  do, — 
the  only  way  of  asserting  his  new  dignity  as  a  working-man — 
a  money-earning  man.  He  must  show  the  old  gang  that  he 
did  not  need  their  patronage  or  pity;  and  in  the  most  lordly 
manner  he  sat  down  at  Miss  Granger's  desk  in  the  bar  parlour 
and  wrote  to  London  ordering  on  his  own  account  another 
three  dozen  of  Eosencrantz,  to  be  despatched  to  the  White 
Hart.  He  knew  he  had  done  wrong  afterwards — immediately 
afterwards  as  he  hurried  back  to  his  work,  he  knew  that  it 
was  desperately  wrong.  It  would  postpone  by  several  weeks 
the  payment  of  his  debt  to  Crunden;  it  was  his  first  false 
step,  first  breakdown  in  his  new  career.  He  knew  now  that 
he  had  been  a  silly  ass,  but  at  the  moment  it  seemed  impossible 
to  be  anything  else. 

Charles,  the  headwaiter,  who  naturally  had  charge  of  the 
"Merry  Girls' "  dinner,  was  also  to  be  major-domo  at  the 
Marquee  luncheon.  In  the  evening  before  the  sale  day,  he 
called  on  Jack  at  Mrs.  Gates'  cottage. 

"I've  just  run  up,  sir,  to  say  as  all  is  in  trim  for  to- 
morrow," and  Charles,  beaming,  endeavoured  to  conceal  the 
surprise  caused  by  the  humble  and  exiguous  parlour  in  which 
he  found  Mr.  Vincent  sitting.  "I  do  hope  we  shall  have  a 
success  of  it  to-morrow,  sir.  Anyhow  the  tent  is  a  knock- 
out— and  I  promised  the  food  will  be  Al.  .  .  .  Weather 
seems  safe,  too.  A  hard  frost  to-night,  sir,  and  the  glass 
higher  than  ever.  But,  sir,"  and  with  a  laugh  Charles  opened 
his  ulster  and  glanced  down  at  his  greasy  black  trousers, 
"I  do  wish,  sir,  I  could  turn  myself  out  a  bit  smarter.  .  .  ." 

And,  shyly,  Charles  explained  how  the  thought  had  come  to 
him  that  Mr.  Jack,  under  his  reverse  of  fortune  and  in  his 


198  HILL  RISE 

new  mode  of  life,  might  probably  be  discarding  his  ceremoni- 
ous dress  suits.  Charles,  impelled  by  this  thought,  had  gone 
to  Mr.  Gregory  in  Water  Lane,  but  had  there  learnt  that 
among  apparel  sold  by  Mr.  Vincent  there  were  no  dress  suits. 

"I  thought,"  said  Charles  apologetically,  "you  wouldn't  be 
wanting  them  nowadays ;  and  you,  sir,  being  a  fine  figure  of  a 
man — like  myself — your  cast-offs  would  do  me  proud,  and  fit 
me  as  a  glove.  .  .  .  Now,  sir,  if  you  could  let  me  have  a 
suit — not  to  give,  but  to  sell " 

"No,"  said  Jack,  "I  can't  sell  you  a  suit.  I'm  not  an  old- 
clothes  merchant.  But  come  upstairs,  and  I'll  see  what  I  can 
do  for  you ;"  and  he  lit  his  bedroom  candle. 

"Mind  your  head,  Charles,"  said  Jack,  as  he  led  the  way 
into  the  little  room  upstairs.  Then,  pulling  forward  a  trunk 
from  the  dark  corner,  he  brought  out  his  treasures,  laid  them 
on  the  bed,  and  examined  them. 

"Here,  Charles.  Here  you  are.  You  are  very  welcome  to 
these." 

"Sir,"  said  Charles,  in  rapture,  "how  can  I  thank  you 
sufficient?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Jack.  "I  can  spare  them.  They 
are  too  big  for  me  now.  Look  here,  Charles,"  and  with  both 
hands  he  plucked  at  his  waistcoat.  "I'm  a  much  finer  figure 
than  I  was.  See.  Quite  a  wasp  waist,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  never,"  said  Charles.  "You  really  are  getting  back 
your  waist.  I  wish  I  could  do  the  same.  How  have  vou  done 
it,  sir?" 

"Hard  work,"  said  Jack,  smiling,  "early  hours,  and  strict 
abstinence." 

"Lor',"  said  Charles,  and  his  broad  face  now  expressed 
the  deepest  sympathy  and  regret.  "I  do  hope,  sir,  you  don't 
go  short,  ever;"  and  the  eyes  of  poor  old  Charles  became 
moist,  and  his  eyelids  blinked.  "Sir,  I  couldn't  bear  to  think 
that  a  gentleman  like  you  ever  went  'ungry  or  short  of  his 
full  allowance.  .  .  .  Let  me,  sir,  buy  these  at  a  fair  price. 
Do  now,  sir.  Many's  the  tip  I've  had  from  you — best  gentle- 
man I  ever  come  across — and  it  isn't  money  that  makes  the 
gentleman.  .  .  .  Do  now,  sir,  let  me  pay  fair." 

"No,  no,  Charles.    But  thanks  all  the  same.    You  always 


HILL  RISE  199 

were  a  sportsman.  No,  you  misunderstand.  I  only  meant 
abstaining  on  purpose.  I'm  dieting  myself — reforming  my- 
self— trying  to  get  into  hard  condition.  That's  all." 

Then  Charles,  reassured,  with  the  dress  suit  in  a  bundle 
under  his  ulster,  went  home  to  the  White  Hart  happy  and 
contented.  He  was  very  fond  of  Jack,  and  had  been  quite 
overcome  by  the  horrid  thought  of  his  sufferings  from  short 
commons. 

On  the  bright  and  frosty  morning  of  Champagne  Day  itself, 
Jack  received  a  supper  invitation. 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  Crunden,  "you'll  make  it  convenient 
to  sup  with  us  to-night — so  that  we  can  talk  things  over  quiet 
when  all's  done.  Mr.  Dowling,  he  can't  join  us;  but  I  hope 
you  will — if  only  to  cheer  us  up  a  bit.  For,  between  you 
and  me — Masonic — my  expectations  have  dropped  these  last 
few  days — chiefly  from  something  Griggs'  clerk  let  fall  and 
then  tried  to  take  back." 

"What  time  is  supper,  sir?" 

"Eight  o'clock — as  usual." 

"Thanks,"  said  Jack,  after  a  little  consideration;  "I'll  be 
there  without  fail." 

Marquee  luncheon,  "Merry  Girls' "  dinner,  Crunden  supper 
— it  would  be  a  full  day  for  Jack. 

The  sale  was  not  a  success.  When  Crunden  saw  the  needy, 
seedy,  greedy  Londoners  that  had  been  imported  at  such  vast 
expense,  his  expectations  dropped  again.  Men  of  straw — that 
was  the  only  name  for  Griggs'  ticket-holders.  It  is  part  of 
a  builder's  business  to  recognise,  and  avoid  treaty  with,  men 
of  straw :  from  them  come  the  half  of  all  builders'  disasters. 
Old  Crunden  hated  and  abhorred  men  of  straw,  and  he  saw 
them  now  trooping  up  the  new  road  in  dozens.  Any  remaining 
hope  must  be  in  the  solidity  of  guests  invited  by  Dowling 
and  Jack,  or  collected  by  the  profuse  advertising  in  the  Lon- 
don Press. 

The  luncheon,  however,  was  most  successful.  Charles  the 
major-domo,  Drake  the  caterer,  and  Jack  the  wine  steward 
and  master  of  ceremonies,  all  played  their  parts  well.  Jack 
particularly  distinguished  himself,  by  his  affability,  winning 


200  HILL  RISE 

all  hearts,  making  everybody  feel  happy  and  at  home.  There 
were  speeches  and  toastings.  Mr.  Douglas  J.  Grigg,  at  the 
top  of  one  of  the  tables,  gave  a  rousing  oration;  Mr.  Crun- 
den's  health  was  drunk  standing;  Mr.  Vincent's  health  was 
drunk  informally — without  a  speech — again  and  again. 

The  great  sensation  of  the  day  was  undoubtedly  the  Eosen- 
crantz  champagne.  It  was  truly  dreadful  stuff — like  burning 
ice,  like  frozen  hot  punch;  like  sugar  turned  into  gas — and  its 
froth  was  quite  wonderful.  It  made  people  sneeze.  It  foamed 
and  fizzed  and  bubbled;  it  sent  its  corks  nearly  through 
the  canvas  roof.  It  banged  like  a  gun,  it  gushed  like  a 
fountain,  it  steamed  like  a  geyser.  Crunden  tossed  off  a  very 
little  of  it  and  then  drank  tumblers  of  soda  water,  one  after 
another,  as  fast  as  he  could.  "But  the  men  of  straw  loved 
it,  could  not  have  too  much  of  it :  "A  glass  of  wine  with  you, 
Mr.  Vincent."  "Your  health,  sir."  "Mr.  Vincent,  I  look 
towards  you." 

Then,  at  last,  tables  were  cleared,  trestles  carried  out; 
rostrum  and  lofty  seat  were  set  up,  and  Mr.  Douglas  J.  Grigg, 
hammer  in  hand,  smiled  down  upon  the  assembly.  But  no 
lots  went  off.  The  lots  were  less  like  cakes  than  stones — . 
rocks  immovably  fixed  to  mountain  sides,  which  even  such 
fire  as  Eosencrantz  could  not  blow  away. 

Just  at  first  all  seemed  as  it  should  be.  The  first  three 
lots  seemed  to  be  knocked  down  at  real  hot-cake  speed.  But 
Mr.  Griggs'  subordinate,  who  hurried  to  take  the  bidder's 
name,  had  to  return  with  tidings  of  confusion  and  annoyance. 
It  was  old  Mr.  Selby,  who,  with  his  young  wife,  had  lunched 
to  repletion,  and  who  was  not  now  bidding  but  merely 
nodding  his  head  in  token  of  ease,  gratitude,  universal  friend- 
liness, etc. 

"No,  no,  my  la'ad,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Douglas  J.  Grigg,  when 
challenged  from  the  rostrum.  "Ye're  a  clever  la'ad,  but  ye 
won't  ca'atch  me  tripping.  No  bid.  I  was  but  nodding  me 
head.  No  bid." 

Not  a  single  lot  was  sold  in  the  Marquee. 

It  was  the  evening  of  Champagne  Day,  and  it  seemed  to 
Lizzie  Crunden  that  history  repeated  itself.  Supper  to-night 


HILL  RISE  201 

was  laid  in  the  big  room;  it  was  long  past  supper  time;  she 
and  her  father  were  waiting  for  the  young  man  who  did  not 
come.  Lizzie  was  thinking  of  a  night  in  the  far-off  past 
when  they  had  thus  waited;  and  as  she  thought  of  it  she 
shivered. 

"Shall  I  dish  up?"  asked  Mrs.  Price,  with  a  long  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Crunden  gloomily;  "we  can't  wait  for  ever. 
He'll  be  here  perhaps  as  soon  as  we  begin." 

Then  father  and  daughter  ate  their  supper  in  almost  un- 
broken silence.  Mr.  Crunden  was  bearing  the  day's  disap- 
pointment stoically.  He  looked  grave  and  stern,  and  his  fore- 
head was  puckered;  but  when  Lizzie  spoke  to  him,  his  brow 
relaxed.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled.  "I'm  not 
fretting,  Liz,"  he  said  valiantly.  "I  didn't  expect  much 
result  from  it ;  but  I  felt  I  ought  to  try  it."  Of  course  he 
must  be  depressed  in  spirits ;  but  he  was  so  brave  that  if  there 
had  been  any  one  here  to  cheer  him,  he  could  have  enjoyed 
his  supper  after  the  long,  fruitless  day.  It  was  unkind, 
thought  Lizzie — heartlessly  unkind  of  the  supper  guest  to  fail 
him.  She  could  not  herself  cheer  him :  her  thoughts,  in  spite 
of  efforts  to  restrain  them,  were  drawn  back  into  the  far-off 
time;  it  was  as  if  all  this  was  an  ugly  dream  which  she  was 
forced  to  dream  for  the  second  time.  She  wondered  if  he,  too, 
thought  of  the  night  when  they  sat  waiting  for  brother  Dick. 
She  was  sure  that  Mrs.  Price  was  thinking  of  it. 

Mrs.  Price,  with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  had  trotted  down 
the  road  to  Mrs.  Gates',  and  on  again  nearly  to  the  bridge, 
seeking  news  or  sight  of  the  laggard.  Now  she  was  back  again, 
asking  her  questions  in  most  niournful  tones. 

"Have  you  finished,  sir?  .  .  .  Shall  I  take  away, 
sir?" 

"No;  leave  the  things — for  the  sake  of  good  manners.  It 
would  look  odd  if  he  came  and  saw  the  table  bare." 

Lizzie  pulled  the  armchair  to  the  corner  by  the  fire,  brought 
her  father  his  pipe  and  tobacco  jar,  and  watched  him  as 
thoughtfully  he  filled  the  pipe.  Watching  him,  her  pretty 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head 
and  stroked  his  coarse  grey  hair.  The  hair  was  white  upon 
his  temples.  Looking  down  at  him,  she  thought  suddenly  that 


202  HILL  RISE 

he  was  quite  an  old  man — too  old  for  hard  work  that  ends 
in  disappointment. 

"Dad  dear,  it  was  bad  luck — about  the  sale.  I  am  so 
sorry  that  you  didn't  have  good  luck.  I  wish  you  could  have 
luck — always."  She  said  this  with  great  cheerfulness,  after 
ostentatiously  blowing  her  nose,  and  furtively  drying  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  fret  for  me,  Liz.  I  wasn't  even  thinking  of  it.  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else — altogether  different." 

Then  he  sat  in  his  armchair,  pulling  at  his  pipe  and  look- 
ing into  the  fire. 

And  then  Mr.  Vincent  arrived. 

History  did  not  entirely  repeat  itself.  It  was  not  quite 
the  arrival  of  unhappy  Dick  all  over  again.  But,  too  plainly, 
Mr.  Vincent  was  not  at  his  best  to-night.  He  was  excited, 
laughing  from  insufficient  cause,  too  voluble,  chattering  non- 
sense and  losing  the  thread  of  it — the  logical  sequence  of  his 
ideas  somehow  checked,  if  not  broken.  As  he  rattled  on,  all 
listened  in  silence.  Mr.  Crunden  was  solemn  as  a  Chancery 
judge;  Miss  Crunden  was  frigid  as  a  marble  statue;  Mrs. 
Price,  who  had  opened  the  door,  turned  up  her  eyes  and  shook 
her  head. 

"Miss  Lizzie — not  going  ?  Don't  go — oh,  please  don't  go ! 
I'm  disgracefully  late — couldn't  get  away.  But  I  meant  to 
come.  They  couldn't  stop  me  coming." 

Pallidly  contemptuous,  with  cold  anger  in  her  grey  eyes, 
and  disgust  in  the  curl  of  her  red  lips,  with  haughtiest  car- 
riage, Miss  Crunden  walked  away  into  the  other  room.  Shak- 
ing her  head,  sadly,  slowly,  Mrs.  Price  went  away  down  the 
kitchen  passage.  Whatever  harsh  words  Mr.  Crunden  might 
choose  to  employ,  the  culprit  to-night  would  find  no  friend 
in  King's  Cottage  to  deprecate  wrath  or  intercede  for 
leniency. 

But  Mr.  Crunden  to-night  used  no  harsh  words.  He  lis- 
tened to  the  chatterbox  as  though  not  listening.  He  seemed 
lost  in  his  own  thoughts;  and  when  at  last  he  spoke,  it  was 
only  to  suggest  that  the  hour  was  late  and  that  perhaps  bed 
would  now  be  the  appropriate  place  for  everybody. 

"Walk  home  with  me,  then,"  said  Mr.  Vincent.    "I  haven't 


HILL  RISE  203 

begun  to  tell,  you  the  fun — I'll  tell  you  all  I  can.  My  dear 
old  boy,  I  don't  want  to  keep  things  from  you." 

He  took  leave  of  Mr.  Crunden  reluctantly  and  affectionately 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Gates'  cottage. 

"Good-bye,  old  boy.  I  wish  you'd  been  at  the  'Merry  Girls' ' 
dinner.  You  ought  to  have  been  there.  It's  a  dashed  shame 
you  weren't  there.  Everybody  was  there;"  and  he  laughed 
heartily.  "Daisy  Dolfin  wasn't  there.  I  was  dashed  glad 
Daisy  Dolfin  wasn't  there.  You  know,  old  chap,  I  liked  that 
girl,  but  I  got  so  dashed  sick  of  her.  You  know,  I  gave  her 
a  bangle.  You  did  know  that,  didn't  you?  Oh,  Daisy's 
all  right.  We  parted  friends — but  I  was  so  dashed  glad  not 
to  see  her  again." 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

"MR.  JACK,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  concluding  her  severe  lecture 
on  Monday  morning,  "will  you  take  the  pledge  along  with 
me?  I  like  my  glass  of  ale — at  meals — as  much  as  any  one. 
But  I'll  give  it  up,  if  you'll  do  the  like.  In  this  house  we've 
seen  too  much  of  the  sorrow  it  brings." 

"Yes,  you've  said  that  before.    Don't  rub  it  in,  Pricey." 

"Then  will  you  do  what  I  ask?" 

"No,  I  won't.  I'll  take  the  pledge  against  Eosencrantz 
champagne.  In  fact,  I  have  taken  it.  Now  run  away,  please. 
Can't  you  see  I'm  busy?" 

The  clerk  might  be  busy,  but  also  he  was  in  disgrace.  Mrs. 
Price  had  lectured  him  with  the  utmost  severity,  although, 
so  far  as  Pricey  was  concerned,  he  strove  to  carry  things 
with  a  high  hand. 

He  was  desperately  busy  when,  later  in  the  morning,  his 
fellow-worker,  Lizzie,  silently  took  her  seat,  and  began  work 
with  the  typewriter.  But,  after  a  little  while,  when  the  clack- 
clack  and  clong-clong  of  the  machine  ceased  and  Lizzie  sat 
writing,  the  silence  became  so  oppressively  irksome  that  he 
attempted  conversation.  He  found,  however,  that  Lizzie 
seemed  altogether  too  busy  to  indulge  in  idle  chat. 

"I  was  looking  for  the  sealing  wax,"  said  Jack,  as  he  rose 
from  his  chair.  "Is  it  on  your  table?" 

Lizzie  pointed  with  her  pen  to  the  tray  that  held  the  sticks 
of  wax. 

"You  don't  wear  those  pretty  blue  dresses  now,  Miss 
Lizzie.  ...  I  suppose  they  are  really  summer  frocks.  .  .  . 
Wouldn't  be  suitable  for  this  cold  weather !  But  you'll  wear 
them  again  in  the  warm  weather,  I  hope.  They  are  so  awfully 
pretty.  .  .  .  But  I  mustn't  interrupt  you.  I  can  see  you  are 
busy.  Mrs.  Price  interrupted  me  just  now,  and  I  reproached 
her  for  doing  it — and  I  mustn't  do  the  same  to  you.  Inter- 
rupt you — I  mean." 

204 


HILL  RISE  205 

Lizzie  went  on  writing  diligently;  and  Jack,  returning 
to  his  desk,  hastened  to  complete  his  clerical  task. 

"Miss  Lizzie,  forgive  my  interrupting  you."  This  was 
when  he  had  taken  his  hat  from  the  peg  and  was  about  to 
go  out.  "Miss  Lizzie." 

"Yes,  what  is  it?" 

"Do  you  remember  how  I  begged  you  not  to  send  me  to 
the  Kedmarsh  Koad  ?  Well,  I  don't  like  this  other  place  you've 
sent  me  to.  I  don't  like  the  place  at  all." 

"What  place  are  you  talking  of  ?" 

"Coventry.  I  hate  it.  You'll  let  me  come  back  soon,  won't 
you?  .  .  .  Miss  Lizzie,  you  know,  I'm  sorry  about  Saturday 
night — being  so  late — and  all  that.  Your  father  hasn't  said 
anything,  yet.  Of  course,  if  he  speaks  to  me,  I  shall  tell  him 
I'm  sorry." 

He  said  it  to  Mr.  Crunden  presently,  in  the  small  room  at 
the  yard.  He  and  his  employer  had  been  going  through  last 
week's  pay-sheet. 

"Mr.  Vincent,"  said  Crunden  gravely,  "I  judged  by  many 
signs  Saturday  evening  that  you — had  been  acting  imprudent. 
Now,  sir,  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  father — I  am  older  I 
do  think  than  Sir  John — so  perhaps  you'll  listen  without 
offence  to  the  remarks  which  I  shall  let  fall." 

At  the  first  word  of  this  second  lecture,  Mr.  Jack  smartly 
brought  his  heels  together;  and,  erect,  silent,  grave,  he  stood 
before  his  superior  officer.  It  was  the  old  orderly-room  manner, 
assumed  instinctively  as  most  suitable  for  the  occasion :  he  was 
again  a  subaltern  taking  a  wigging  from  the  colonel  in  the 
approved  military  style.  No  defence;  no  explanation;  brief 
statement  of  regret,  when  your  colonel  gets  tired  of  it  or 
loses  his  breath. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir.    It  shan't  happen  again." 

But  when  all  was  over — with  formal  manners  laid  by,  and 
they  were  strolling  through  the  archway  side  by  side,  Mr. 
Crunden  began  again. 

"You  know,  sir — any  remarks  I  let  fall  were  simply  for 
your  own  good.  I  feel  sure  your  own  father — Sir  John — 
would  endorse " 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,"  said  Jack  rather  warmly,  "don't  rub 


206  HILL  RISE 

it  in.  Don't  go  on  rubbing  it  in.  It  was  after  business 
hours " 

"Yes,  yes,  we'll  say  no  more." 

"Don't,"  said  Jack ;  and  then,  after  a  gulp,  as  though  swal- 
lowing the  tendency  to  slight  warmth,  he  laughed  and  gave 
Mr.  Crunden  a  slap  on  the  shoulder.  "You  can  see  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  Well,  then,  as  between  men  and  brothers 
— as  between  good  pals — you  needn't  try  to  rub  it  in ;"  and  he 
hurried  away  towards  the  estate. 

Crunden,  walking  by  himself,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  grey  jacket,  thought  of  the  present  and  of  the  past.  He 
stamped  along  bravely  enough;  but,  thinking  thus,  he  was 
sad  and  heavy  of  heart.  He  thought  of  his  son  Dick.  Why 
would  not  his  own  son  bear  advice  and  reproof  ?  Why  would 
not  he  work,  or  feel  the  least  sympathy  for  workers?  Was 
it  the  fault  of  the  father  ?  Surely  not  all  the  father's  fault  ? 

He  walked  up  Hill  Eise,  looking  to  right  and  left  at  the 
houses  already  empty,  at  the  houses  that  soon  would  be  empty, 
too;  but  he  saw  without  seeing.  His  difficult  enterprise,  his 
annoyance  at  delay,  his  hopes  for  prompt  success — all  had 
faded  from  his  mind;  he  was  walking  in  the  past;  he  was 
walking  with  ghosts. 

Dick  would  never  brook  hard  words;  Dick  was  obdurate 
to  kind  words.  You  could  not  lead  him,  you  could  not  entice 
him,  you  could  not  coerce  him.  He  must  have  known  that 
there  was  love  for  him,  if  he  would  but  deserve  it — if  he  would 
but  accept  it.  Even  the  hedgehog  loves  its  young — Dick  must 
have  known  that.  Open  revolt,  scorn  of  his  humble  origin, 
sneering  jokes  about  common  toil  and  honest  rewards — these 
were  the  things  that  the  doomed  boy  offered  in  exchange 
for  all  one's  care  and  thought. 

Crunden  shrugged  his  shoulders,  tilted  his  square  hat  back 
on  his  head,  passed  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  then  stamped 
on  faster  to  the  gate  of  the  old  tennis  ground.  He  was  trying 
to  shake  off  the  past:  strong  men  should  think  only  of  the 
present  and  the  future.  He  had  work  before  him — years  of 
work — enough  to  occupy  all  one's  thought.  He  would  think 
only  of  his  appointed  task. 

The  clubhouse — the  property  of  the  members — had  been 


HILL  RISE  207 

pulled  down  and  removed ;  sold  as  old  material  for  a  few  shil- 
lings more  than  the  cost  of  cartage.  The  long  grass  on  the 
tennis  lawns  was  white  with  frost ;  the  wire  fences  were  broken 
where  they  had  not  been  knocked  over ;  two  basket  chairs  with 
the  seats  smashed  lay  out  at  the  mercy  of  the  weather ; — desola- 
tion and  ruin  were  all  one  could  see  on  the  spot  where  polite 
society  had  once  gathered  to  laugh  and  play  together,  or  to 
deride  and  scoff  at  their  inferiors  outside  the  gates.  Crunden, 
now  lord  and  master,  looked  down  from  here  at  his  wide 
domain.  The  new  finished  roads  were  clean  and  bright,  with 
the  new  granite  kerbs  and  channels  flashing  and  sparkling  in 
the  frosty  sunlight.  Thousands  of  shining  sovereigns  had 
gone  to  the  making  of  them — they  might  well  glitter  to  show 
where  the  gold  lay  buried.  Far  below  him  the  slate  roofs 
of  his  new  cottages  caught  the  light  and  reflected  it  dully. 
Nearer  to  him,  above  the  completed  roads,  were  road  sections 
laid  on  either  hand,  but  as  yet  waiting  attention — merely  the 
turf  stripped  off,  earth  dug  and  carted,  the  track  just  bar- 
relled, and  left  to  wait  for  its  six  inches  of  brick  rubbish, 
its  four  inches  of  coarse  ballast,  its  two  inches  of  fine  ballast, 
for  surface  drains,  for  main  sewer,  for  its  kerbings,  chan- 
nellings,  its  gravel-path,  its  everything.  And  in  all  direc- 
tions, all  over  the  domain  near  and  far,  were  the  corner 
pegs  of  good  sound  pine  to  mark  boundaries  of  all  the  plots 
whereon  houses  would  one  day  be  built.  It  was  a  noble  slice 
of  freehold  land  for  its  owner  to  look  down  upon,  a  building 
estate  of  which  even  a  big  company  might  be  proud ; — stretch- 
ing away  in  the  frosty  sunlight,  it  seemed  a  tremendous  space 
to  get  covered  within  five  years  even  if  things  went  smoothly. 
Far  off  there  were  men  and  wagons,  piles  of  cases,  an  untidy 
litter,  and  the  bare  poles  of  the  tent  to  remind  him  of  Sat- 
urday's wasted  money.  He  would  be  glad  when  Griggs  and 
Drake  had  cleared  away  all  their  mess,  and  he  should  be 
able  to  forget  the  adventure.  The  depression  that  must  follow 
after  disappoinment  was  heavy  upon  him  as  lie  walked  for- 
ward. To-day  he  could  not  hold  his  thoughts  to  business 
matters.  They  had  wandered  again  from  the  great  task,  and 
he  was  thinking  now  of  the  young  man,  his  clerk.  Pres- 
ently, as  he  thought  of  his  clerk,  he  smiled.  He  stopped 


208  HILL  RISE 

short,  brought  his  heels  together,  took  his  hands  from  his 
pockets,  and  drew  back  his  shoulders  and  stood  straight  and 
firm.  That  was  the  attitude.  The  memory  of  it  made  him 
smile. 

Poor  Dick,  when  upbraided,  used  to  sit  slouching  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets — never  look  you  in  the  face,  just  stare  at 
the  ceiling.  Afterwards  he  would  sulk — never  ask  you  in 
a  friendly  way  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Crunden  frowned 
again  as  he  thought  of  it. 

"As  between  pals!"  That  was  a  thing  poor  Dick  would 
never  have  said.  But  of  course  no  meaning  in  it  really. 
Gammon !  Just  your  fine-gentleman  trick  of  pleasant  speech. 
Words  chosen  for  the  sound  of  them,  not  for  the  sense  in 
them — but  words  chosen  with  such  skill  sometimes  that  they 
are  music  to  the  ear  and  comfort  to  the  heart. 

"As  between  good  pals  I" 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

THE  Marquee  sale  had  proved  a  dire  fiasco — nearly  five 
hundred  pounds  spent,  and  absolutely  no  result.  For  a 
week  or  two  Crunden  suffered  from  depression  of  spirits,  was 
silent  and  thoughtful  at  meals,  absent-minded  and  gloomy  in 
the  yard.  Then  he  roused  himself  and  began  to  take  ener- 
getic action.  One  day  Ke  told  Dowling  that  he  had  deter- 
mined to  start  building  four  decoy  houses  at  once.  It  had 
been  originally  intended  to  start  with  two  decoys,  but  he  now 
decided  that  he  must  double  the  number.  Bowling's  plans 
were  all  ready;  the  houses  would  be  of  the  very  latest  style — 
quaint  yet  handsome,  tricky  and  startling  in  exterior  design, 
but  most  comfortable  and  convenient  inside.  There  would 
be  fantastic  porches,  green  tiles,  bottle  glass,  hall-doors  of 
unvarnished  oak  studded  with  nails  and  spikes;  there  would 
be  shower  baths,  electric  bells,  hatches  through  which  the 
food  could  slide  into  the  dining-room  instead  of  troubling 
the  servants  to  carry  it  from  the  kitchen ;  there  would  be  run- 
mouldings  from  America,  architraves,  skirtings,  and  chair 
rails  from  Sweden — in  a  word,  they  would  be  decoys  so 
attractive  that  they  could  scarce  fail  to  lure  the  shy  birds. 
Builders  are  like  the  birds  in  this,  that  they  like  to  begin 
building  about  Valentine's  day;  and  Crunden  wanted  to  get 
his  houses  well  out  of  the  ground  by  that  date.  With  Dow- 
ling,  he  carefully  selected  the  best  strategic  sites — two  on  the 
outside,  one  at  the  top  of  his  new  roads,  and  one  still  higher, 
beyond  all  roads,  close  to  where  the  clubhouse  used  to  stand. 
This  farthest  house  would  be  a  bold  decoy,  and  would  appear 
inaccessible  until  success  made  it  worth  one's  while  to  bring 
the  roads  up  to  it. 

One  must  be  bold  when  hesitation  and  delay  will  be  fatal. 
The  great  London  and  Suburban  Land  Trust  were  now  giving 

209 


210  HILL  RISE 

attention  to  their  Hill  House  Estate.  Their  boards  were  up, 
and  words  on  the  boards  showed  clearly  what  redoubtable 
neighbours  and  rivals  this  Company  would  be.  "Money  ad- 
vanced on  easy  terms" — that  was  the  Company's  large-lettered 
message: — "Three-quarters  of  purchase  may  be  left  at  low 
rate  of  interest." 

Mr.  Parrot,  in  conversation  with  Crunden,  quoted  this 
announcement  two  days  after  the  Company's  boards  were  first 
seen.  Mr.  Parrot  was  the  builder  from  Reigate  who  had 
taken  six  plots,  and  thereon  was  to  build  three  more  rows 
of  cottages.  He  had  signed  his  agreement,  but  he  had  done 
nothing  further;  he  was,  he  said,  finishing  his  Reigate  jobs — • 
must  finish  there  before  he  could  begin  here. 

"I  hope,"  said  Crunden  sternly,  "I  haven't  got  hold  of  a 
man  of  straw." 

"Oh,  no/'  said  Parrot  indignantly.  "Nothing  of  the  sort. 
But  I  never  told  you  I  was  made  of  money.  And  if  you 
want  to  be  off  with  the  bargain,  say  so,  and  you're  welcome. 
I  shall  only  have  to  walk  up  the  road  to  get  ground — yes, 
and  money,  too." 

"They  won't  give  you  ground  for  cottages,  Mr.  Parrot." 

"I  ain't  particular  what  I  build — especially  when  I'm  being 
financed  on  easy  terms." 

Crunden  concealed  his  discontent,  affected  to  be  satisfied 
with  Parrot's  excuses  for  dilatoriness,  politely  expressed  the 
hope  that  Parrot  would,  like  the  birds,  begin  to  build  those 
snug  little  nests  by  springtime.  The  conversation  had  shown, 
him  again  how  essential  it  was  to  be  beforehand  with  his 
rivals.  If  the  Company's  boards  had  been  in  position  earlier 
he  would  never  have  secured  Parrot. 

He  enlarged  his  staff  at  the  yard.  He  had  intended  to 
work  with  the  smallest  possible  staff,  but  now  he  had  more 
than  thirty  men  on  the  weekly  pay-sheet.  Twelve  hands  in 
the  joiner's  shop,  a  plumber  and  two  mates  in  the  plumber's 
shop,  two  masons,  three  plasterers,  three  painters  who  were 
also  glaziers  and  paperhangers,  six  or  seven  bricklayers  with 
eight  or  nine  labourers,  shop-foreman  at  forty-five  shillings  a 
week,  outside  foreman  at  fifty  shillings,  not  to  mention  clerk 
at  thirty-five: — with  these  items  to  make  up  the  wages'  bill, 


HILL  RISE 

Saturday's  money  needed  thought  and  calculation.  He  was 
in  fact  working  soon  with  a  nearly  full  yard :  he  was  a  builder 
again  quite  on  the  large  scale  as  in  the  old  days. 

But  the  work  itself  cheered  him,  kept  him  in  heart  and 
courage.  He  had  always  thriven  on  hard  work:  anxious 
waiting  and  idle  delay  are  what  enervate  and  enfeeble  body 
and  brain.  At  home  he  was  always  cheerful  now.  Every- 
thing, he  told  Lizzie,  was  going  on  smoothly  and  prosperously. 
Neither  she  nor  his  clerk  need  ever  worry  their  heads  as 
to  the  ultimate  success  of  the  great  scheme.  You  must  sow 
before  you  can  reap.  The  money  was  pouring  out,  but  it 
would  come  rolling  home  again.  All  that  concerned  the 
financial  side  of  the  scheme  was  entirely  Mr.  Crunden's  affair : 
as  to  that  side  of  it  he  made  no  confidants,  he  required  no 
advice. 

Thus,  as  the  weeks  and  months  passed,  life  at  King's  Cot- 
tage settled  down  into  a  steady  routine:  without  excitement, 
without  holidays,  with  nothing  but  healthy  toil  for  everybody, 
the  time  once  more  glided  fast. 

Lizzie  in  her  great  indignation  having  sent  Mr.  Jack  to 
Coventry,  kept  him  in  that  town  of  silence  for  many  weeks. 
But  at  last  she  allowed  him  to  understand  that  his  offence  had 
been  pardoned.  If  papa  could  overlook  and  forget,  it  was 
not  for  her  to  be  unforgiving.  Papa,  she  thought  sadly,  was 
more  gentle  with  Jack  than  he  had  been  with  Dick.  She 
seemed  nervous  and  apprehensive  when  again  Jack  was  bidden 
to  supper;  she  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  and  look  at  the 
visitor  when  Mrs.  Price  announced  his  arrival.  But  on  this 
occasion  Mr.  Jack  was  quite  at  his  best — at  his  very  best ;  and, 
with  Mr.  Dowling  as  a  sprightly  second  guest,  the  evening 
was  of  the  pleasantest.  No  business  was  talked:  it  was  just 
a  friendly  supper-party. 

Jack,  however,  detected  the  misgivings  of  his  hostess,  and 
pleaded  with  Mrs.  Price  to  obtain  for  him  a  more  complete 
oblivion  of  the  past. 

"Pricey,  do  tell  Miss  Lizzie  that  she  needn't  be  afraid.  Do, 
for  goodness'  sake,  tell  her  that  Champagne  Day  will  never 
come  again." 

"I  hope  it  never  will/'  said  Mrs.  Price  severely. 


HILL  RISE 

To  Lizzie  not  the  least  painful  thing  about  Champagne  Day 
had  been  the  necessity  to  speak  of  it  to  Lady  Vincent.  In 
these  months  Lady  Vincent  had  paid  further  calls  on  Miss 
Crunden,  and  had  written  once  or  twice.  Jack's  mamma  was 
grateful  to  Miss  Crunden  for  attempting  to  exert  her  good 
influence,  and  begged  her  to  continue  the  exertion. 

"He  told  me/'  said  Lady  Vincent,  "that  you  had  urged 
him  to  return  to  us.  Only  he  cannot  do  so.  But,  Miss  Crun- 
den, your  words  were  not  without  effect.  He  has  dined  with 
us  more  often — much  more  often  than  before.  .  .  .  And, 
Miss  Crunden,  he  is  not  falling  into  any  bad  habits,  is  he  ?" 

Then  Lizzie,  blushing  hotly  under  the  sense  of  vicarious 
shame,  felt  compelled  to  touch  upon  the  final  events  of  Cham- 
pagne Day. 

"You  know  what  I  said,  when  you  said  about  his — his 
doing — what  you  said.  I  forget  the  word." 

"Pegging,"  said  Lady  Vincent  solemnly.  "It  is  a  slang 
word." 

"Well — after  that,  he  did  peg  once.  But  he  has  never 
pegged  since  then.  And,  Lady  Vincent,  I  don't  think — I  feel 
sure  that  he  has  made  up  his  mind  not  to  peg  again." 

"Oh,  Miss  Crunden,  do  show  him  your  horror  of  that 
dreadful  habit." 

"I  did  show  it,"  said  Lizzie,  blushing  more  hotly  still. 

It  was  curious  how  completely  Lady  Vincent  now  seemed  to 
count  on  Lizzie  as  her  ally.  From  the  moment  of  her  dis- 
covery that  Lizzie  held  "such  right  views"  on  the  all-important 
subject  of  Jack,  she  confided  in  Lizzie  absolutely.  She  was 
the  kindest,  but  certainly  not  the  wisest,  of  women;  and  on 
one  of  her  visits  she  made  a  naive  confession.  "Miss  Crunden, 
you  are  so  different  from  what  I  had  been  led  to  suppose.  It 
only  shows  how  careful  one  should  be  in  forming  an  opin- 
ion about  people  that  one  really  does  not  know.  I  very 
much  regret  that  in  your  case  I  formed  a  most  erroneous 
opinion." 

It  now  seemed  quite  natural  to  turn  to  Lizzie,  as  a  right- 
viewed  person,  for  news  and  for  assistance.  Indeed,  as  Lady 
Vincent  had  always  thought,  it  was  the  natural  duty  of  any 
one  privileged  to  enjoy  the  society  of  Jack  to  take  the  strong- 


HILL  RISE  213 

est  interest  in  his  welfare.  She  spoke  of  him  to  Lizzie  without 
the  least  reserve — as  to  another  matron  full  of  years;  almost 
as  if  Lizzie  had  been  a  relative  of  the  family,  some  old  aunt 
of  Jack,  lost  sight  of  for  a  long  time  but  now  again  brought 
back  to  the  family  circle. 

"My  dear  boy  will  want  some  holiday.  Miss  Crunden,  have 
you  thought  of  that?  If  he  works  all  through  the  year,  his 
health  must  fail.  Mr.  Crunden  can  scarcely  refuse  some 
holiday/' 

"No,  my  father  will  give  him  a  holiday  if  he  asks  for  one. 
My  father  is  taking  no  holiday  himself  this  year." 

"Ah,  but  your  father  has  worked  all  his  life,  and  is  there- 
fore inured  to  it.  But  with  Jack,  that  is  not  so.  Do,  Miss 
Crunden,  use  your  influence  and  get  a  holiday  for  him.  Make 
him  take  a  little  rest  before  the  autumn.  .  .  . 

"And,  Miss  Crunden,  could  you  manage  this  for  us?  Pre- 
vail upon  him  to  spend  his  holidays  with  us  at  Bournemouth. 
We  are  going  to  Bournemouth  in  order  to  be  near  my  husband's 
poor  old  cousin.  You  know,  Miss  Vincent  is  dreadfully  in- 
firm— lamentably  afflicted.  I  really  do  not  believe  that  there 
is  the  smallest  chance  of  poor  dear  Harriet  recognising  us 
or  even  knowing  that  we  are  in  the  neighbourhood;  but  my 
husband  feels  that  if,  poor  dear,  she  did  dimly  understand 
that  we  had  come  on  purpose,  she  would  take  it  as  a  kind- 
ness. But  it  will  be  so  wretchedly  dull  for  him — whereas, 
if  he  had  Jack  as  a  companion,  we  should  all  be  happy.  He 
is  such  a  wonderful  companion.  You  find  that,  don't 
you?  .  .  . 

"And,  Miss  Crunden,  his  father  will  say  nothing  to  upset 
Jack.  I  do  not  pretend  that  my  husband  is  yet  reconciled  to 
Jack's  work.  But  he  does  honestly  begin  to  admire  it.  You 
see,  it  goes  on.  That  is  what  surprises  my  husband  and  has 
won  his  admiration." 

It  was  at  the  end  of  this  visit  that  Lady  Vincent  for  the 
first  time  spoke  in  almost  a  friendly  manner  of  Lizzie's 
father. 

"You  have  seen  what  this  horrible  Company  are  doing  at 
Hill  House?  What  does  Mr.  Crunden  think  of  that?  They 
are  pulling  down  our  old  home;  they  are  cutting  down  the 


214  HILL  RISE 

dear  old  trees — it  is  far  worse  than  what  your  father  is 
doing.  .  .  . 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Crunden.  Tell  Jack  his  place  is  laid 
at  dinner  every  night.  Short  makes  a  point  of  it.  Short,  I 
think,  is  just  as  pleased  to  see  him  as  we  are.  ...  I  shall 
walk  up  Hill  Eise  and  look  at  our  old  home.  It  is  a  painful 
sight — but  it  is  cowardly  to  avoid  it.  The  world,  Miss  Crun- 
den, is  always  changing;  and  I  suppose  it  is  foolish  to  wish 
to  keep  things  as  they  were  forever. 

"Since  this  horrid  Company  has  come,  one  can  understand 
that  perhaps  what  your  father  is  doing  is  only  natural.  Your 
father,  seeing  the  opportunity  to  make  a  large  fortune,  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  refrain — from  consideration  for  other 
people's  feelings.  If  it  had  not  been  your  father,  I  suppose  it 
would  be  some  one  else.  For  your  sake,  now,  I  will  wish  your 
father  continued  success.  He  has  been  famously  successful 
so  far,  hasn't  he?" 

"He  is  getting  on  very  well,  I  think." 

Lizzie,  standing  at  the  door  of  ceremony,  watched  Lady 
Vincent  walk  slowly  up  Hill  Eise.  The  world  had  indeed 
changed  to  bring  her  the  great  Lady  Vincent  as  a  friendly, 
garrulously  confidential  visitor.  Once  such  visits  would  have 
made  her  heart  beat  fast  with  pride  and  hope,  and  filled  her 
brain  with  vaguely  beautiful  dreams :  now  they  left  her  quite 
calm  and  self-possessed.  But  from  them  there  had  come  one 
most  comfortable  feeling,  together  with  a  sense  of  grateful 
respect  for  the  visitor's  husband.  Sir  John  had  kept  his 
word.  Sir  John  had  proved  himself  a  great  gentleman : 
not  even  to  his  faithful  wife  had  he  betrayed  the  secret  of  old 
Crunden's  mad  proposal.  Lizzie,  talking  to  Lady  Vincent, 
was  ,quite  sure  of  this ;  and  her  respectful  gratitude  to  Sir 
John  grew  deeper  and  deeper. 

Mrs.  Price,  for  her  part,  derived  no  comfort  from  my  lady's 
calls. 

"What'd  she  come  here  again  for  ?  Miss  Lizzie,  if  I  was  you, 
I  wouldn't  encourage  her  coming.  She  couldn't  take  care  of 
him  when  she  had  him  in  her  charge,  and  now  as  we're  looking 
after  him,  she  wants  for  to  unsettle  him  again  and  take  him 
away  from  us." 


,  HILL  RISE  215 

When  Mrs.  Price  employed  the  masculine  pronoun  without 
previous  nominative,  one  could  always  know  that  nominative 
understood  was  Mr.  Jack. 

There  could  be  no  question  that  Crunden  had  been  suc- 
cessful with  the  two  rows  of  cottages  built  by  himself.  The 
finishing  had  been  somewhat  slow,  but  they  were  practically 
done  now — fences  being  fixed,  last  coat  of  paint  going  on  to 
doors  and  garden  gates,  tenants  waiting  to  come  in  and 
dry  the  plaster.  They  were  really  commodious  cottages ;  suita- 
ble abodes  for  small  clerks,  wives  of  superior  servants,  good 
working  couples  who  could  take  a  lodger  to  help  pay  the  rent 
of  ten  shillings  a  week — which  was  certainly  not  too  high. 
These  cottages  were  the  safest  part  of  Crunden's  scheme. 
Such  property  is  always  saleable ;  and,  although  no  offers  had 
yet  been  procured,  Crunden  was  confident  that  he  would  have 
no  difficulty  in  selling.  There  is  always,  in  any  town,  a  good 
demand  for  cottages — until,  of  course,  you  put  up  too  many 
cottages,  and  over-supply  kills  demand. 

Now  the  time  had  come  to  name  these  attractive  little  boxes 
of  bricks,  and  Crunden,  in  jovial  spirits,  had  invited  his 
assistants  to  advise  upon  the  choice  of  names. 

"You  mean,"  said  Jack,  "a  name  for  the  lot?  You'll  give 
a  number  to  each  ?" 

"No,"  said  Crunden,  "I  mean  to  name  'em  all  through. 
Tenants  never  like  numbers.  They  like  to  live  in  a  house 
with  a  name — and  a  good  big  name,  too." 

"Bella  Vista,"  suggested  Mr.  Bowling. 

"Multum  in  Parvo,"  suggested  Jack. 

"Scheme  Aussicht,"  said  Lizzie,  smiling. 

"Shah  Nore,"  said  Crunden,  laughing  gruffly.  "There's  a 
a  bit  of  French  for  you.  Shah  Nore !  That's  good  French, 
isn't  it,  Liz?  .  .  .  No,  you've  all  showed  your  learning; 
but  English  names  are  good  enough  for  me,  thank  you.  And 
I  don't  know,"  he  continued  gravely,  "as  we  can  do  better 
than  fall  back  on  the  stately  homes  of  England — Hatfield, 
Chatsworth,  Welbeck,  and  so  on " 

"How  about  the  stately  trees  of  England?"  said  Bowling, 
"Elm!  Oak!  Yew  Cottage— Willow  Cottage!" 


216  HILL  RISE 

"I'd  rather  have  the  flowers,"  said  Lizzie.  "Kose  Cottage, 
Jasmine  Cottage." 

"What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Price?" 

"Oh,  I  say :  Number  'em  and  be  done  with  it,  sir." 

"I  shan't  call  'em  cottages,"  said  Crunden,  "whatever  else 
I  call  'em.  Tenants  don't  like  the  word  cottage.  Houses! 
Hill  Side  Houses,  eh?" 

"Oh,  call  them  cottages,  sir,"  Jack  pleaded.  "If  you  begin 
with  houses  for  these,  you'll  have  to  call  the  others  castles." 

"Well,  there's  something  in  that,  too,"  said  Crunden  doubt- 
fully. 

After  a  long  but  amicable  debate,  Mr.  Crunden  allowed  him- 
self to  be  overruled  on  all  points.  The  cottages  were  called 
cottages,  and  were  numbered — Hill  Side  Cottages,  1  to  20. 
And  in  a  little  while  all  but  three  of  them  were  occupied  by 
the  best  class  of  cottage  tenants. 

This  was  pleasant  enough;  but  before  very  long  Mr.  Crun- 
den had  to  face  two  more  disappointments.  The  man  who 
had  taken  Lot  5,  and  of  whom  much  was  hoped,  disclosed 
himself  as  a  man  of  straw.  An  unsightly  roofless  carcass  was 
thrown  on  Mr.  Crunden's  hands.  Carcasses  cannot  be  left 
about  on  a  building  estate ;  profitably  or  not  you  must  convert 
them  into  weather-tight,  roofed,  and  glazed  houses :  aban- 
doned as  derelict,  they  proclaim  the  story  of  failure  and  will 
scare  away  the  boldest  speculators.  Mr.  Crunden  grunted, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  manfully  set  to  work  to  turn  the 
scaring  carcass  into  a  fifth  luring  decoy. 

Then  came  the  ignominious  collapse  of  Mr.  Parrot.  Et  tu, 
Brute!  In  a  moment  one  saw  plainly  the  straw  bulging  and 
protruding.  He  was  as  completely  a  man  of  straw  as  any 
effigy  of  his  landlord  on  last  Guy  Fawkes  day. 

He  had  allowed  St.  Valentine's  feast  to  pass  without  be- 
ginning to  build.  Midsummer  was  near  before  he  cut  the 
turf,  brought  bricks  upon  the  ground,  and  slowly  laid  down 
concrete  and  set  his  footings  for  the  three  new  rows  of  cot- 
tages. On  the  third  of  July,  when  he  was  about  ten  courses 
high,  the  bill  which  he  had  given  to  his  brickmaker  was  dis- 
honoured, and  he  came  up  to  King's  Cottage  to  ask  for  mone^y. 
The  morning's  post  had  already  sounded  the  well-known  note 


HILL  RISE  217 

of  alarm.  "In  regard  to  J.  E.  Parrot,"  wrote  this  man  of 
straw's  timber  merchant,  "we  are  prepared  to  deliver  imme- 
diately on  the  understanding,  as  we  have  already  been  given  to 
understand,  that  you  are  guaranteeing  the  account ;  but  before 
doing  so  shall  be  glad  to  have  your  confirmation  of  the  same." 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  take  over  the  newly  started 
cottages.  Eather  than  lose  time  and  incur  costs  in  recovery 
by  law,  Crunden  paid  off  Parrot's  score  for  bricks,  etc. — 
bought  out  Parrot,  and  even  gave  him  something  for  him- 
self, to  be  rid  of  him  promptly.  Gladly  would  he  have  also 
given  Parrot  a  prodigious  kick  behind,  to  speed  him  from 
the  land  and  knock  the  straw  out  of  him. 

Again,  however,  he  bore  his  disappointment  stoically. 

"I  saw  it  coming,"  he  said  to  Jack.  "There  was  no  sur- 
prise in  it.  I've  seen  it  coming  quite  plain  last  few  weeks." 

And  he  grunted,  squared  his  shoulders,  and  took  up  the 
new  work.  Unfinished  cottages  cannot  be  left  about  on  a 
successful  building  estate.  One  must  keep  moving:  noth- 
ing must  stand  still.  Upon  the  hill,  his  rivals  were  moving 
fast.  The  Company  had  cleared  the  ground  along  their  out- 
side frontage,  had  marked  out  and  even  fenced  their  plots; 
and  these  outside  sites — with  the  unbroken  view  over  the  golf 
links,  the  common,  the  bare  down  and  nestling  woods — were 
going  off  like  hot  cakes. 

The  staff  was  increased  again:  the  yard  was  so  full  now 
that  it  overflowed.  The  master  was  now  as  busy  as  in  the  old 
days  when  he  had  six  or  seven  solid  contracts  on  hand.  But 
of  course  there  must  be  a  limit  to  this  sort  of  thing.  Mr. 
Crunden's  scheme  had  been  to  get  others  to  build  all  over  the 
land,  not  to  build  all  over  it  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NEARLY  a  year  had  passed  and  the  warm  summer  weather 
was  coming  round  again.  The  big  map  on  the  wall  at  King's 
Cottage  had  many  new  red  patches  on  it — nearly  a  dozen, — 
to  mark  the  progress  of  the  months.  The  red  paint  showed 
steady,  but  somewhat  slow,  progress,  with  which  Mr.  Crunden. 
always  professed  himself  satisfied. 

It  would  have  been  an  easier  and  quicker  task  to  paint  their 
map  for  the  London  and  Suburban  Trust.  The  Company, 
lending  money  to  anybody  who  asked  for  it,  with  boundless 
capital  behind  them — other  people's  capital,  sacks  of  it,  to 
waste  if  they  chose, — had  performed  what  looked  like  miracles. 
Their  whole  ten  acres  had  been  prepared  in  one  block — the 
last  tree-root  grubbed  out,  roads  smoothed  by  steam-rollers, 
paths  neatly  paved  and  gravelled,  lamp-posts  set  up,  fences 
placed  throughout,  names  of  the  new  roads  on  large  enamelled 
plaques  glaring  at  one  from  every  corner.  That  was  how 
the  Company  developed  an  estate — bang,  all  together,  at  one 
blow.  Perhaps  it  might  not  be  sound  business;  but  if  they 
lost  here,  they  would  gain  elsewhere.  Should  they  drop  money 
at  Medford,  they  could  pick  it  up  far  away  at  Willesden, 
Peckham,  Bromley.  Washing  one  hand  with  another,  the 
Company's  arms  stretched  across  four  counties. 

To  Medford  citizens  it  seemed  that  the  Company  possessed 
an  Aladdin's  lamp.  When  they  rubbed  the  lamp,  one  rubbed 
one's  eyes  in  wonder.  Houses  rose  in  a  single  night.  The 
common  frontage  was  all  filled;  a  profusely  gabled,  red-tiled 
village  was  advancing  from  the  common,  and  every  day  it 
seemed  to  draw  nearer  to  Hill  Rise  and  Mr.  Crunden's 
boundary. 

During  this  period,  while  the  minutest  trace  of  his  old  home 
was  being  obliterated,  Mr.  Jack  Vincent  had  paid  his  debt. 

218 


HILL  RISE  219 

He  came  to  Mr.  Crunden  one  Friday  evening  and  put  a  little 
bag  of  gold  on  the  table  before  him. 

"This,  sir,  is  what  I  owe  you — with  many  thanks.  I 
thought  you'd  be  writing  your  cheque  for  Saturday's  money — 
and  this  can  go  to  the  yard  instead." 

"Oh,  ah !    Yes,  sir — but  is  it  convenient  to  you  ?" 

"Quite,"  said  Jack.  "You  remember,  I  paid  ten  pounds 
on  account.  Well,  this  is  the  balance — forty-pounds  odd." 

"What's  the  odd  for  ?"  asked  Crunden,  counting  the  money. 
"It  was  only  fifty  pounds." 

"Interest,"  said  Jack.  "Four — ten.  Five  per  cent.  It 
ought  to  be  eighty  per  cent. — because  you  had  no  security." 

"Yes,  I  had,"  said  Crunden  gruffly.    "Your  word." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"I  can't  take  the  interest." 

"Please  do,  sir.    You  really  must  take  it — to  oblige  me." 

"Matter  of  pride,  eh  ?"  and  from  beneath  bent  brows  Crun- 
den looked  at  his  clerk.  "Very  good.  I  understand  your 
pride — your  proper  pride." 

Then  he  put  the  money  back  in  the  bag,  dropped  the  bag 
into  a  drawer  of  his  bureau;  and,  after  unlocking  another 
drawer,  searched  among  his  papers. 

"Here  you  are,  sir,"  and  he  handed  Jack  his  I.O.U. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  And  thank  you  again  for  the  loan — and 
for  your  kindness  in  letting  me  earn  the  money  to  wipe  it 
off." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Crunden  stiffly. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Jack  hesitatingly, 
"for  giving  me  the  chance  of  earning  the  money.  It  was  very 
good  of  you.  And  I  have  tried  my  best  to  take  the  chance, 
don't  you  know.  I  have  really  tried  to  earn  the  money — 
and  the  grub  you've  given  me.  .  .  .  But  have  I  earned  it, 
sir?" 

"Yes,"  said  Crunden,  rather  gloomily,  "you  have  earned  it 
honest  and  square." 

"Tally-ho,  whoo-hoop,"  cried  Jack.  "I  did  want  you  to  say 
that  so  badly.  And  you  did  say  it  at  last.  And  you  meant 
it — honour  bright  and  shining?" 

"Yes,  I  meant  it." 


HILL  RISE 

"Forrard — forrard  away — 0,"  and  Jack  capered  out  of 
the  room,  down  the  passage,  into  the  kitchen. 

"Look,  Pricey-picey,  puddeny-pie,"  and  he  put  his  I.O.TJ. 
in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  table,  flung  an  arm  round  the 
ample  waist  of  Mrs.  Price,  and  danced  her  round  the  table. 

"Lor',  Mr.  Jack,  let  me  be.     Let  be,  I  say." 

"Then  look  at  it,  Pricey,  look.  Greatest  achievement  of 
modern  times;"  and  he  babbled  and  laughed  with  so  much 
gaiety  and  excitement  that  for  a  minute  or  two  Mrs.  Price 
thought  Champagne  Day  had  come  again. 

"Pricey,  you  old  ass,  you're  the  one  in  this  house  that  cares 
for  me — so  you're  the  friend  I  turn  to  in  joy  and  sorrow. 
Look  at  it.  I've  earned  the  money  and  paid  it  back.  If 
any  one  had  told  me  I  should  earn  my  daily  bread  and  save 
forty  quid,  I'd  have  said  he  was  a  rotten  prophet.  But  I've 
done  it.  I  can  look  the  whole  world  in  the  face,  for  I  owe 
not  any  man." 

"Let  me  be,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  escaping  from  another 
dance. 

"You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me,  Pricey,  old  girl. 
I  was  a  dreamer  and  I  am  awake.  But  more  than  that — I 
am  free  now.  I  was  a  bond  slave,  and  I  have  won  my  freedom. 
And  look  at  my  figure.  I  have  regained  my  lost  figure — look 
at  my  wasp  waist.  A  young  lady  told  me  the  other  day  I  was 
as  lean  as  a  greyhound.  And  I'm  as  strong  as  a  lion.  Catch 
hold  of  my  arm — feel  it.  Whip-cord  and  steel.  Catch  hold 
of  my  leg — feel  my  leg.  .  .  . 

"Don't  be  an  ass.  You're  old  enough  to  be  my  grandmother. 
Feel  it,  I  say.  Hard  and  straight,  as  a  cast-iron  drain- 
pipe. ...  If  you  pitched  me  out  in  the  world  now,  I'd  laugh. 
I'm  worth  my  grub  and  pay  now — all  the  world  over." 

Mrs.  Price  recounted  to  Lizzie  the  exuberance  and  joyful 
chatter  of  the  debt-free  clerk. 

"He  come  running  to  tell  me  about  it — just  like  a  child. 
And  laugh  and  snap  his  fingers.  There,  he  made  me  dance 
with  him,  Miss  Lizzie — he  did,  indeed."  And  Mrs.  Price 
smiled  and  bridled  as  she  went  on  to  report  the  gratifying  com- 
pliment paid  her  by  Mr.  Jack.  "He  said  I  was  the  one  in 
this  house  that  was  fondest  of  him — and  that's  true,  Miss 


HILL  RISE  221 

Lizzie.  I'd  go  through  fire  and  water  for  him — if  he  asked 
me.  .  .  . 

"I  never  knew  the  master  lent  him  the  money,  but  I'm 
proud  to  think  he  done  so.  He  never  dunned  him  to  pay 
back,  I'm.  sure — and  that  proves  how  good  Mr.  Jack  is  for 
to  be  so  pleased  in  paying  of  his  debt." 

Another  day,  when  Lizzie  was  alone,  Mrs.  Price  with  smiles 
and  nods  and  mysterious  mien  approached  Mr.  Jack's  desk. 

"Miss  Lizzie — you  very  busy?  I  can  show  you  something 
to  make  you  laugh.  He's  hidden  it  away  here — in  here — in 
his  desk." 

"What  are  you  doing  ?    You  are  not  opening  his  desk  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Price.  "Lor' — he  wouldn't  mind. 
He  may  come  in  now  and  catch  me  for  all  I  care." 

"Yes,  but  I  care.  I  don't  want  to  see  anything  that  Mr. 
Vincent  keeps  shut  in  his  desk." 

And  Lizzie  would  not  look,  although  Mrs.  Price  brought 
the  hidden  curiosity  across  the  room  for  her  inspection.  It 
was  a  square  of  cardboard,  on  which  Mr.  Vincent  had  pasted 
his  I.O.U.  Above  and  beneath  this  interesting  relic  he  had 
written  in  a  large  and  clerkly  hand ;  and  Mrs.  Price  laughingly 
recited  the  inscription. 

"John  Vincent's  work — that's  the  writing,  miss — This  debt 
was  discharged  and  the  documentary  evidence  recovered — 
I'm  reading  the  writing,  miss — by  the  savings  of  the  earn- 
ings of  the  work  of  John  Vincent.  Day  after  day,  to  the 
astonishment  of  himself  and  all  mankind,  John  Vincent  has 
worked  and  is  now  working.  .  .  .  There,"  said  Mrs.  Price, 
restoring  the  vainglorious  placard  to  the  desk,  "just  like  any 
child — who  feels  he's  been  good  and  says  so." 

He  certainly  was  childlike  in  the  naive  delight  that  bubbled 
out  of  him,  and  found  expression  not  only  on  cardboard  but 
in  his  conversation.  It  seemed  that  he  had  truly  felt  the 
burden  of  debt  weighing  upon  him,  and  that  with  the  load 
thrown  off  he  felt  a  joyous  freedom.  Self-satisfaction,  to- 
gether with  the  loss  of  flesh,  now  rendered  him  even  boyish 
of  aspect  as  he  prattled  of  the  pleasures  of  independence,  and 
so  forth.  If  he  did  not  directly  speak  of  himself,  one  could 
guess  that  he  was  thinking  of  himself  and  his  famous  achieve- 


222  HILL  RISE 

merit.  He  exhibited  the  boyish  egotism  which  one  forgives 
because  of  its  candour  and  innocence. 

"Miss  Lizzie.  You  know  I'm  riding  again.  That's  the 
only  thing  I  missed — my  rides.  But  now  I  get  my  rides 
before  my  work." 

Lizzie  politely  conveyed  her  compliments  on  this  gratifying 
fact.  She  was  glad  to  learn  that  Mr.  Vincent  could  now  afford 
the  luxury  of  horse-riding. 

"Oh,  no/'  said  Jack.  "I  couldn't  afford  it,  if  I  had  to 
pay.  I  went  round  to  Banker,  the  riding-master,  and  asked 
to  help  him  exercise  his  horses.  Good  chap — Banker.  He 
said  yes — just  out  of  kindness.  The  worst  of  it  is,  his  horses 
don't  want  exercise — they  want  rest.  But  he  has  bought  a 
young  'un — and  he  does  want  that  well  schooled — for  Miss 
Irene  Hope  to  ride.  .  .  .  Miss  Hope  wrings  all  their  backs. 
You  know  how  she  twists  about  on  a  chair — well,  she  does 
the  same  on  a  horse." 

Lizzie  smiled,  and  for  once  encouraged  Mr.  Vincent  to  go 
on  chattering.  She  disliked  Miss  Hope  so  much  that  she 
enjoyed  hearing  how  badly  Miss  Hope  rode. 

"Banker  is  a  real  good  sort — a  grand  worker.  H,e  has  been 
working  all  this  time  for  his  sister.  When  her  husband  died, 
she  was  left  with  the  business  and  those  little  children — and 
the  business  might  have  gone  to  pot,  and  the  children  starved, 
but  for  Banker.  A  good  chap  like  that  ought  to  marry  and 
be  happy  ever  after.  I'd  like  to  see  Banker  happy  with  a 
nice,  kind,  pretty  wife — because  he  is  such  a  good  sort." 

Mr.  Jack  had  nothing  further  to  say  about  squirming  Irene, 
and  Lizzie  ceased  to  encourage  him.  After  paying  his  tribute 
to  the  virtue  of  Banker,  he  passed  on  to  his  own  virtue  and 
became  too  egotistical  even  for  a  child. 

"My  waist  almost  frightens  me,"  and  he  pulled  in  his 
jacket.  "Wasps  sometimes  break  in  two  at  the  waist.  Do 
you  remember  what  a  fat  podge,  I  used  to  be?  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
was — I  weighed  at  least  three  stone  too  much.  Dieting  is 
the  grand  thing.  Miss  Lizzie,  I  am  very  careful  now  about 
what  I  eat — and  drink.  Never  to  exceed,  I  mean.  ...  If 
you  want  to  be  in  really  fine  condition,  you  can't  be  too 
careful  about  eating — and  drinking." 


HILL  RISE  223 

Lizzie  very  rarely  indeed  encouraged  Mr.  Jack  to  talk  in 
business  hours.  She  checked  him  by  long  pauses,  inattentive 
answers,  and  final  silence.  He  knew  that  he  must  not  talk 
to  her  and  waste  both  his  and  her  time. 

One  morning  he  was  plainly  wasting  his  time  while  she 
busily  worked.  He  sat  idly  musing — nibbling  the  end  of  a 
pencil  while  he  watched  her  working. 

His  idle  scrutiny  troubled  her  at  last  and  she  looked  up  and 
asked  if  he  was  in  need  of  anything. 

"Oh,  no.    I  was  only  thinking." 

Lizzie  went  on  with  her  work. 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  pretty  blue  dresses.  You  don't 
wear  them  now — and  I'm  so  fond  of  blue.  I  told  you  how 
I  admired  them,  and  I  was  wondering  if  that  was  why  you 
gave  up  wearing  them — because  you  thought  I  had  bad 
taste." 

"How  absurd,"  said  Lizzie,  after  a  pause.  "I  have  worn  out 
my  old  dresses,  and  I  haven't  bought  any  new  dresses  this 
year." 

"When  you  buy  one,  do  get  it  like  the  very  oldest  one — the 
one  you  wore  years  and  years  ago  when  I  first  came  here ;"  and 
Jack  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  .  .  . 
"Bigger,  of  course:  that  one  wouldn't  fit  you.  But  that  was 
the  one  I  liked  you  best  in.  ... 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why,  Miss  Lizzie?  .  .  .  Because  in  that 
dress  you  were  kinder  to  me  than  you  are  now — more  of  a 
friend.  .  .  .  You  know,  your  father  is  pleased  with  me,"  and 
he  smiled.  "Mrs.  Price  is  very  pleased  with  me.  Mary  doesn't 
mind  me.  That's  three  people  in  this  house.  I  think,  if  I 
went  away,  I  should  leave  in  this  house  three  real  friends." 

Then  there  was  another  pause. 

"You  would  leave  four,"  said  Lizzie,  without  looking 
up. 

Jack  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"No.  You  had  to  say  that  out  of  politeness.  'Nay,  sir, 
I  take  you  not  to  be  my  friend'  .  .  .  Good  gracious,  I've 
forgotten  old  Eaton.  Eaton  told  me  to  be  at  his  office  by  a 
quarter  to  twelve.  It's  ten  minutes  past ;"  and,  snatching  his 
hat,  Jack  ran  off — really  like  a  greyhound. 


224  HILL  RISE 

Crunden,  after  supper  on  August  evenings,  would  some- 
times smoke  his  pipe  in  the  garden  with  Lizzie.  The  day's 
work  lay  behind  him :  he  could  rest  for  an  hour  now,  and  try 
to  forget  the  work.  Here,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  there 
was  nothing  to  remind  him  of  it;  he  had  turned  his  back 
on  the  Hill,  with  all  the  new  town  that  he  and  his  rivals  were 
making;  the  old  town,  unchanged,  lay  at  his  feet.  Through 
the  summer  darkness — not  really  darkness,  but  a  dusky,  restful 
silence  that  prepares  the  world  for  sleep, — one  could  make 
out  the  familiar  roofs  and  towers — the  dome  of  Selkirk,  the 
brewery  warehouse,  the  pinnacles  of  the  municipal  hall, — and 
trace  the  line  of  the  main  streets  by  the  lamp-lit  windows, 
or  the  reflected  light  thrown  from  walls  and  eaves  where  the 
gas  was  flaring  in  shops  below. 

"Dad,  your  pipe  has  gone  out.     Shall  I  get  the  matches?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Liz.  It's  a  very  funny  thing  a  pipe  is 
never  quite  the  same  where  you  can't  properly  see  the  smoke. 
But  it's  pleasant  sitting  out  here  in  the  cool.  Don't  you 
want  a  shawl — or  something?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Take  care  of  your  health,  my  dear — go  on  taking  care 
of  it.  I  have  been  neglectful  of  you,  Liz — -latterly." 

"I  am  perfectly  well,  father.  As  strong  as  a  horse.  There's 
nothing  left  of  the  silly  Lizzie  who  made  you  anxious.  Don't 
give  me  a  thought." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  haven't  given  you  many  thoughts — 
latterly.  I'm  too  deep  in  this — and  I  can  only  think  of 
one  thing  at  a  time.  I  was  always  like  that.  But  you  are 
not  to  stick  too  close  to  your  desk — Mrs.  Price  says  you  work 
too  hard." 

"Oh,  that's  absurd !  It's  the  work  that  has  done  me  good — 
cured  me,  and  made  me  strong." 

"That's  right.  Yes,  I  do  believe  you  are  cured — in  your 
health.  And,  Liz,  the  other  thing — the  fancy?  .  .  .  What 
you  called  your  dream  is  quite  done  with,  eh?  The 
time  has  come  when  you  and  I  may  just  talk  of  it  and 
laugh?" 

"No.  Laugh — but  don't  talk  of  it.  Please  nerer  speak 
of  it  again." 


HILL  RISE 

"Oh,  but  this  once,  Liz,  I  must  speak  of  it.  I  want  to  be 
quite  sure  how  we  stand." 

"Then,  for  the  last  time.    Father,  is  that  a  bargain?" 

"Yes,  that's  a  bargain." 

"Well,  what  is  it  that  you  want  to  be  sure  about?" 

"That  I  done  no  harm  in  having  Mr.  Vincent  here " 

"No  harm." 

"You  said  so,  you  know,  or  I  wouldn't  have  agreed  to  it. 
But  I  want  to  know  it  turned  out  right — hasn't  worried  you, 
made  you  uncomfortable." 

"No — not  now.     Only  at  first." 

"But  it  did  at  first  ?    Answer  me  true,  Liz." 

She  had  moved  away  to  the  low  wall,  and  was  looking  over 
the  dark  roofs  of  the  sleepy  old  town. 

"Father — for  the  very  last  time.  It  was  all  nonsense — but 
I  hated  his  being  here.  I  thought  Sir  John  would  tell  him. 
I  didn't,  dare  meet  his  eyes.  Only  just  at  first,  father — it 
was  torment  and  punishment.  But  it  was  soon  over — and  I 
deserved  worse  punishment  than  that  for  upsetting  you,  and 
making  you  burst  out  into  all  this " 

"No,"  said  Crunden  resolutely.  "You  had  nothing  to  do 
with  that.  I've  always  told  you  so.  All  that  wasn't  wise — 
and  businesslike  in  it  was  just  my  own  spite  and  rancour — 
to  read  a  lesson  to  the  lot  of  'em  and  clear  off  old  scores.  .  .  . 
But  leave  that  alone.  You  don't  mind  him  now?" 

"No,"  said  Lizzie,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Meeting  his  eyes  don't  worry  you  now?" 

"No." 

"You  are  just  indifferent  about  him?" 

"Absolutely,"  said  Lizzie  with  firmness,  almost  with  defi- 
ance. "Except  as  a  friend  who  has  been  useful  to  you." 

"Ah!  That's  all  right,  dear.  Just  as  I  judged  by  all 
the  signs.  Eight.  But  I  had  to  ask  you — to  make  certain 
how  we  stood.  Because  now — I  think  I  shall  get  rid  of  him." 

"Get  rid  of  him !" 

"Well,  he  wants  to  go,"  said  Crunden  rather  sadly,  "and  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  let  him  go.  I  don't  see  how  I  could 
prevent  it.  .  .  ." 

Lizzie,  sitting  on  the  low  wall,  with  hands  clasped  in  her 


226  HILL  RISE 

lap,  silently  listened  as  her  father  went  on  more  and  more 
sadly. 

"I  shall  miss  him,  Liz.  He  has  been  useful  to  me — no 
two  ways  about  that.  And  I  counted  on  him  for  the  clerking 
when  I've  shut  the  yard.  I  must  do  that  precious  soon  now. 
Ought  to  have  done  it  before — but  thh.'^.v  have  gone  so  slow. 
Cruelly  slow,  my  dear,  cruelly  slow.  .  .  . 

"Mind  you,  it  doesn't  follow  that  because  he's  been  useful 
to  me  he'll  be  useful  to  others.  He  is  looking  out  for  some- 
thing better — but  he  mayn't  be  able  to  hold  it,  if  he  finds 
it.  He  has  learnt  my  ways,  and  I  understand  him.  He  may 
be  making  a  thundering  mistake.  I'd  be  sorry  for  that, 
too.  .  .  . 

"But  there  you  are,  Liz.  I  certainly  can't  go  on  my  knees 
to  him — no,  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  stand  between  him  and 
his  prospects.  ...  I  shall  have  to  get  another  clerk — get 
one  supercilious  jackass  after  another  till  I'm  suited,  I 
suppose." 

"Oh,  dad,"  said  Lizzie,  in  a  low  voice,  "there  must  be  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out  of  it." 

"Think  so,  Liz?  But  I  shall  miss  him — beyond  his  use. 
I  don't  mind  saying,  Liz,  I  shall  miss  him  sore." 

The  days  were  drawing  in  again.  It  was  well  on  in  Sep- 
tember and  the  afternoons  had  already  become  so  chilly  that 
one  felt  glad  to  have  a  good  fire  burning.  Lizzie  was  on 
her  knees  before  the  hearth,  with  a  log  in  her  hands,  when 
Jack  came  bursting  in  to  tell  her  about  the  marvellous  letter 
from  Griggs. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  catch  you  alone.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first. 
It's  a  secret.  I  wanted  your  advice — before  I  tell  your 
father." 

He  had  found  something  incredibly  better  than  the  Crun- 
den  clerkship.  His  eyes  sparkled  and  he  snapped  his  fingers 
gaily  as  he  spoke  of  it.  Griggs — most  eminent  of  auctioneers 
— offered  him  four  pounds  a  week  to  begin  with,  promise  of 
a  steadily  increasing  salary,  and  the  dazzling  though  remote 
prospect  of  a  small  partnership  in  their  famous  house. 

Lizzie  was  on  her  knees,  but  she  did  not  pray  to  him  that 


HILL  RISE  227 

he  would  remain  at  obscure  little  Medford.  She  got  up, 
read  the  letter,  and  advised  him  to  accept  the  offer  from 
the  vast  metropolis.  Griggs  were  evidently  in  earnest. 

"We  beg  of  you  seriously  to  consider  our  offer  and  its  ad- 
vantages, which/'  said  Griggs  politely,  "will  be  mutual.  We 
will  study  your  own  inclinations  as  to  character  of  employ- 
ment— whether  in  town  or  country — in  personal  contact  with 
our  best  London  clients,  or  as  our  travelling  representative 
among  the  nobility  and  landed  gentry,"  etc. 

"Then  you  advise  me  to  go,  Miss  Lizzie — as  a  friend?" 

"As  a  friend,  what  else  can  I  advise?  Besides,  what  could 
any  advice  matter?  I  can  see  how  pleased  you  are." 

"Yes,"  said  Jack.  "Not  so  much  with  the  thing  itself — but 
the  compliment — the  feeling  of  independence.  You  know,  the 
world  my  oyster — and  all  that.  A  partnership  with  Griggs !" 

"Had  you  applied  to  them?" 

"No.  It's  just  an  unsolicited  testimonial  to  merit.  Griggs 
bowled  over,  laid  flat  on  their  backs — feel  they  can't  get  up 
again  unless  I  come  and  give  them  a  helping  hand.  .  .  .  And 
you  advise  me  to  go.  Yes,  I  thought  you  would.  Thank 
you,  Miss  Lizzie.  But  keep  it  a  secret,  please.  Don't  tell 
your  father  about  this.  There's  no  hurry — and  I  have  told 
him  I  should  soon  be  going." 

"Very  well,  I  won't  speak  about  it.  But  I  don't  think 
you'll  want  much  time  to  make  up  your  mind." 

"No.  You  advise  it.  I  am  sure  you  are  right,  Miss 
Lizzie.  I  was  sure  you  would  tell  me  to  go.  Of  course,  I 
shall  be  sorry  to  leave  your  father — but  then  this  means  real 
independence — high  pay — wealth.  Suppose  I  ever  wanted  to 
marry.  Why,  I  could  almost  keep  a  wife — if  she  wasn't  too 
big  a  swell — on  four  pounds  a  week — to  begin  with." 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

IT  was  the  end  of  the  week — long  after  working  hours,  and 
yet  Lizzie  was  still  busy.  To-day  there  had  been  excitement, 
the  hope  of  a  good  stroke  that  flamed  up  bright,  flickered 
feebly,  faded,  and  then  again  glowed  and  dropped — like  the 
firelight  on  the  ceiling  when  the  fuel  is  damp  and  needs  the 
strongest  bellows.  Early  in  the  morning  a  gentleman  and  his 
friend  had  come  from  Surbiton  to  buy  one  of  the  decoy 
houses;  and  all  day  they  had  been  apparently  on  the  point 
of  buying.  They  had  been  in  and  out  of  King's  Cottage,  at 
the  decoy  itself,  round  and  round  the  estate,  till  lunch  time ; 
then  they  went  away  and  took  luncheon  at  the  White  Hart; 
then  they  returned,  and  with  Jack,  Crunden,  and  Bowling  had 
spent  the  afternoon  between  the  estate  and  Eaton's  office. 
The  last  news  was :  everybody  assembled  in  the  road  outside 
the  decoy,  but  no  business  yet  done. 

Now,  with  the  twilight  falling,  Lizzie  sat  at  her  desk 
clearing  up  interrupted  tasks,  while  she  waited  for  her  father 
to  come  home  to  his  delayed  tea. 

"Business,  business,  business !"  said  Mrs.  Price  dolefully, 
as,  after  lighting  the  lamps,  she  drew  the  curtains.  "It's 
all  work  nowadays  and  no  play.  Saturday  night  or  Monday 
morning's  all  one.  .  .  .  Miss  Liz !  You  very  busy  ?" 

"Only  finishing  something." 

"Finishing!  That's  what  none  of  you  ever  do.  There's 
no  end  to  it.  It  can't  be  right  to  forget  one's  meals — tea 
put  off  till  supper  ought  to  be  on  table.  By  the  time  the 
master  has  made  his  big  fortune,  you'll  all  have  the  indi- 
gestion so  as  you  won't  be  able  to  enjoy  your  meals.  .  .  . 
Miss  Lizzie!  Stop  your  work  and  let  me  bring  you  your 
tea." 

"No.  I'll  wait  for  father.  They  must  have  nearly  done 
their  talk." 

228 


HILL  RISE 

"Mr.  Bowling's  there,  isn't  he?  He'd,  go  on  talking  to 
the  gentlemen  till  midnight.  .  .  .  Oh,  Miss  Lizzie,  do  stop 
writing." 

"Pricey,"  said  Lizzie,  putting  down  her  pen,  "they've 
been  so  long  that  I  begin  to  hope  they'll  succeed." 

"I  hope  so,  too.  And  I  know  the  best  thing  your  father 
and  Mr.  Dowling  could  do,  is  to  come  straight  home  and 
have  their  tea,  and  leave  Mr.  Jack  to  do  the  job.  He's  the 
one  that  sells  the  land,  and  Mr.  Bowling's  the  one  that  talks 
about  it." 

"Hark,"  cried  Lizzie.    "That's  father's  footstep." 

A  glance  at  Mr.  Crunden's  face  told  her  that  he  did  not 
bring  good  news.  He  looked  tired  and  dejected  and  cold. 

"No  success,  dad?" 

"Nothing  settled.  Mr.  Jack's  talking  to  'em.  Bowling  has 
run  down." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  "it  is  tea  now.  I  keep  telling 
her  it's  Saturday  night,  but  she  goes  on  just  the  same." 

"Yes,"  said  Crunden  wearily.  ,  "Blow  up.  Knock  off. 
Strike  work.  Put  your  things  aw«t; '  Lizzie ;"  and  he  went  to 
the  fire,  and  stood  before  it  warming  his  hands.  "It's  been 
a  bad  week.  Let's  be  done  with  it.'' 

"They  haven't  quite  decided  against  the  house,  have  they, 
dad?" 

"No.  Just  backwards  and  forwards — hem  and  ha.  First 
it's  the  house  they'll  buy,  then  it's  a  site  they'll  take  and 
build  to  their  own  taste." 

"They  couldn't  build  a  nicer  house,  father." 

"No.  I  don't  believe  better  decoy  houses  were  ever  put  up. 
They  arc  very  nice,  my  decoys — but  they  don't  seem  to  catch 
much,  do  they?"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed 
bitterly. 

Presently,  when  Mrs.  Price  had  brought  the  tea,  Bowling 
arrived. 

"May  I  come  in?  ...  Nothing  done.  Yes,  one  minute. 
No,  the  next.  Mr.  Jack  is  hard  at  them  still.  They  seem, 
to  hanker  after  the  site  now.  Irritating  sort  of  people." 

"You'll  have  some  tea,  won't  you?"  asked  Lizzie. 

"Yes,  sit  down,"  said  Crunden  gruffly. 


230  HILL  RISE 

"Thank  you,  but  I  ought  to  be  getting  home,"  said  Mr. 
Bowling,  and  he  looked  at  the  comfortable  tea-table  and 
hesitated.  "My  wife  may  expect  me.  But  no  again — stupid 
of  me  to  forget" — and  he  brought  a  chair  to  the  table — "Mrs 
Bowling  has  a  social  engagement.  Besides,  she  would  guess 
where  I  am.  She  could  ring  me  up  on  the  telephone  if  she 
wished  me  home." 

"She  can't  wish  you  home  when  she's  out,"  said  Crunden 
rather  testily.  "You  aren't  the  house  cat." 

"No,  I  am  quite  aware  of  that,  Mr.  Crunden;"  and  Mr. 
Bowling  drew  back  the  chair. 

"No,  no,"  said  Crunden.  "Sit  down,  sir  ...  and  stay 
to  supper,  too — and  cheer  us  up  a  bit.  We  want  it." 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  like  that;"  and  Bowling  sat  down. 
"Yes,  thank  you.  I  will  stay  to  supper.  .  .  .  Two  lumps, 
Miss  Lizzie,  if  you  please;"  and  he  took  a  slice  of  cake. 
"Talking  always  makes  me  hungry." 

"Always  makes  me  thirsty,"  said  Crunden,  after  emptying 
his  second  cup.  "Parch -s  me  when  it  goes  on  like  it  has 
to-day." 

And  then,  sipping  at  Iris  third  cup,  Mr.  Crunden  announced 
that  he  was  about  to  lose  his  clerk. 

"He  gave  me  notice  this  morning  when  he  drew  his  screw. 
He  goes  end  of  next  week,  Lizzie." 

Mr.  Bowling  was  astounded  by  this  announcement  and  be- 
came loud  in  his  praises  of  Jack.  Mr.  Bowling  by  no  means 
considered  that  there  were  as  good  fish  in  the  sea.  He  loudly 
declared  that  they  would  never  find  such  another  clerk. 

"He's  so  jolly  over  it,  too — so  affable  and  friendly.  Hear 
what  Griggs'  men  used  to  say  of  him.  And  why  should  he 
go  ?  Has  there  been  any  unpleasantness  between  you  ?" 

"No,  not  that  I've  seen — or  guessed.  He  says  he  wants  to 
go,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  A  mistake,  very  likely.  He 
may  live  to  regret — and  I  shouldn't  like  him  to  have  to 
rough  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Bowling,  "he'll  fall  on  his  feet.  No  fear  of 
that." 

"Father,  didn't  he  tell  you  where  he  was  going?" 

"No,  he  said  London  probably — no  more." 


HILL  RISE  231 

"I  should  try  to  retain  him,"  said  Bowling  enthusiastically. 
"I  should  try  to  persuade  him.  Means  could  surely  be  found — 
if  we  discussed  it  together " 

"Well,"  said  Crunden,  "how?  Let's  discuss  it.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  discuss  it " 

Then  Mrs.  Price  came  in  with  another  jug  of  hot  water. 

"I  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  "stop  your  discussion — not  half 
a  minute.  There.  Now  I'm  off  and  you  can  go  on  discuss- 
ing." 

"No  secrets,  Mrs.  Price,"  said  Crunden  kindly.  "Stay  and 
give  us  your  word." 

But  if  Mr.  Dowling  had  been  loud,  Mrs.  Price  was  far 
louder.  When  she  heard  what  to  her  seemed  most  direful 
tidings,  she  really  screamed. 

"Never.  Oh,  never.  Don't  you  say  that — and  don't  you 
let  it  happen ;"  and  she  turned  almost  fiercely  upon  her  master. 
"Have  you  drove  him  into  this — with  your  angry  tongue  and 
your  hard  ways?  Haven't  you  learnt  your  lesson  yet — that 
young  people  with  high  spirits  and  warm  hearts  aren't  to  be 
driven  like  so  many  dogs?" 

"There,"  said  Crunden  sternly.  "That'll  do.  Not  so  much 
noise — or  go  outside  and  squall  there." 

But  Mrs.  Price  was  not  easily  calmed.  Who  was  the  de- 
linquent ?  That  was  her  cry. 

"Yes,  sir,  I'll  go  outside — but  I  want  to  know  who  done 
it.  If  it  isn't  you  to  blame — then  who  is  it  ?  Her  ladyship  ? 
Yes,  and  an  old  fool  she  is — though  I  say  it.  ...  Or  is  it 
that  Miss  Barter  got  hold  of  him  ?  If  so,  it's  our  fault,  and 
I  say  it.  She's  an  'ussy.  Yes,  Mr.  Dowling — you  may  stick 
up  for  her,  but  I  say  she  is.  A  nasty  good-for-nothing  bag- 
gage— and  it's  on  our  conscience  if  it's  her  taking  him  away." 

And  Mrs.  Price  with  scarcely  abating  clamour  retired  into 
the  kitchen  to  weep. 

"Well,"  said  Crunden,  "I  asked  for  her  word,  but  I  never 
thought  she'd  give  us  such  a  noisy  one.  She's  uncommonly 
fond  of  Mr.  Vincent,"  he  continued,  as  if  apologising  to  the 
visitor  for  the  storm  raised  by  his  housekeeper.  "And  she's 
one  of  the  family,  you  know — so  we  encourage  her  to  speak 
out  frank." 


232  HILL  RISE 

When  Mrs.  Price  returned  later  with  a  fresh  pot  of  tea 
for  her  favourite,  she  showed  red-rimmed  eyes;  but  her  voice 
and  manner  were  subdued  to  the  fitting  housekeeper  level. 

Mr.  Jack  had  brought  with  him  no  satisfactory  news:  in 
reply  to  Crunden's  anxious  inquiries  he  could  only  shake  his 
head,  although  he  still  spoke  hopefully. 

"No.  Nothing  settled.  They  are  going  home  to  think  about 
it." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Crunden  gloomily,  "that's  as  good  as  say- 
ing, No  go.  It  can't  be  helped.  We've  all  done  our  best." 

"Impossible  sort  of  people,"  said  Bowling.  "You  are 
always  where  you  started,  with  people  of  that  sort." 

"No,"  said  Jack,  "they  intended  buying.  I  feel  sure  they 
did.  I  believe  it's  just  torpid  liver — they  probably  eat  too 
much.  They  both  looked  as  if  they  did.  They  want  bucking 
up  before  they  can  do  anything.  I  did  try  to  bluff  them — just 
at  the  end — while  we  were  waiting  for  their  fly.  A  fly !  Too 
lazy  to  walk  to  the  station — though  I  told  them  they'd  have  to 
wait  for  their  train." 

Mr.  Crunden  was  not  bearing  this  disappointment  with 
his  wonted  stoicism.  He  sat  frowning,  silent,  absent-minded — 
in  spite  of  Mr.  Jack's  hopeful  chatter,  Lizzie's  sympathetic 
glances,  and  Bowling's  well-intentioned  efforts  to  communi- 
cate gaiety  and  cheerfulness.  Once  or  twice  he  brought  out 
his  bandana  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead ;  and  Lizzie, 
watching  him,  saw  that  his  hand  was  trembling.  For  the 
moment,  at  least,  he  was  suffering  keenly  under  the  failure 
of  the  long  day's  hope. 

He  looked  up  with  a  start  when  the  telephone  bell  rang; 
and  Lizzie  could  read  in  his  eyes  that  his  thoughts  had  carried 
him  far  away. 

"Will  you  allow  me?"  said  Mr.  Bowling,  hastily  inter- 
cepting Jack  as  he  moved  towards  his  table  to  answer  the 
call.  "I  think  this  is  for  me.  Mrs.  Bowling  most  likely.  .  .  . 
Are  you  there?"  and  Mr.  Bowling's  voice  became  deprecat- 
ingly  gentle.  "Is  that  you,  my  dear?  .  .  .  Oh!"  and  he 
turned  and  beckoned  Jack.  "It  is  not  for  me  after  all.  Will 
you  take  it,  please." 

Then  Jack  put  the  receiver  to  his  ear. 


HILL  RISE 

"Yes,  I  hear  you,"  he  said,  in  strong,  firm  tones.  "No,  I 
am  not  Mr.  Crunden.  I  am  his  clerk.  Yes,  Vincent.  Oh, 
no !  No,  certainly  not  .  .  ." 

As  he  stood  now  listening,  he  made  gestures  with  his  left 
hand,  as  if  begging  for  silence  from  all  at  the  tea-table  behind 
him.  "Yes,  I  hear  you.  Wait  a  moment,  please." 

Then  he  came  from  the  wall  and  whispered  excitedly  to 
Crunden. 

"Speak  low.  I  don't  want  them  to  catch  a  word.  .  .  .  It's 
the  same  old  trout — down  at  the  station  now.  He's  nibbling 
again.  Almost  biting.  May  I  strike?  Will  you  let  me 
strike?" 

"What  d'you  mean  ?"  whispered  Crunden. 

"I  believe  I  could  land  him.  May  I  bluff  solid  ?  You  know 
— kill  or  cure?" 

Crunden  was  looking  up  at  Jack's  excited  face  with  an 
expression  in  which  Lizzie  saw  doubt,  anxiety,  even  fear.  His 
hand  shook;  his  lips  trembled. 

"You — you  mean" — he  whispered — "tell  him  to  buy  now 
or  be  done  with  it  ?" 

"That's  it.    Poker !    Bluff  him.    Put  up,  or  shut  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Crunden,  in  the  faintest  whisper.  "Do  it — 
do  it;"  and  he  picked  up  the  bandana  and  again  wiped  his- 
forehead. 

"Are  you  there?"  said  Jack  at  the  telephone,  in  a  really 
truculent  tone.  "Come  on.  Speak  up.  What  is  it?" 

At  the  tea-table  there  was  dead  silence.  All  eyes  were  upon 
Mr.  Vincent's  back:  Crunden  was  mopping  his  forehead; 
Bowling  sat  rigid  and  open-mouthed ;  Lizzie,  with  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  her  chin  resting  on  her  hands,  was  pale 
and  breathless  from  sympathetic  excitement. 

"It  is  to  take  or  leave,"  said  Jack,  with  appalling  brusque- 
ness.  "You  have  wasted  enough  of  our  time.  I  have  often 
sold  six  houses  with  far  less  trouble  than  you  have  given 
us  to-day.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  you  can  have  as  much  time  as 
you  like,  but  I  told  you  our  houses  are  going  off  like  hot  cakes. 
We  won't  hold  the  house  to  your  refusal  while  you  shilly- 
shally and  ask  your  grandmother's  advice.  .  .  .  No  offence.. 
That  was  a  joke.  I  say  that  was  a  jol^e.  .  .  . 


234  HILL  RISE 

"Very  good.  You  will  buy  at  eighteen  hundred.  All  right. 
Take  your  cheque  for  one-eighty  round  to  Eaton's,  and  the 
house  is  yours.  .  .  .  Yes,  Monday,  or  Tuesday,  or  Dooms- 
day will  do  just  as  well — but  we  don't  hold  the  house  for  you 
till  ten  per  cent,  deposit  is  in  hand.  .  .  .  Just  as  you 
like.  .  .  .  Very  well.  I'll  ring  up  Eaton  and  tell  him  to 
prepare  the  receipt  at  once.  Now  buck  up.  Keep  moving. 
Eaton  will  have  the  receipt  ready  long  before  you're  there;" 
and  Jack  worked  the  handle,  hung  up  the  receiver,  and,  with 
a  beaming  face,  turned  for  a  moment  from  the  wall.  "Whoo- 
hoop !  Tally-ho.  Worry-worry !" 

"Bravo !"  said  Crunden  huskily.    "Bravo !" 

"I  admire  your  pluck/'  said  Bowling.  "Grand — really 
grand/' 

And  after  a  little  more  bell-ringing  and  with  much  "Are 
you  there?" — first  to  the  Medford  Central  exchange  and 
then  to  Mr.  Eaton  the  solicitor, — Jack  gave  instructions  about 
cheque  and  receipt. 

"Oh,  he  meant  buying,"  he  said  modestly.  "But  dreadful 
torpid  liver — sure  the  man  eats  too  much,"  and  he  took  out 
his  watch.  "Now,  if  they  don't  change  their  minds  again 
between  the  station  and  Bridge  Street,  Eaton  ought  to  give 
us  the  all-right  signal  in  less  than  ten  minutes." 

Then  they  sat  anxiously  waiting. 

Ten  minutes  passed.  Twelve  minutes — fifteen — sixteen 
immensely  long,  heavy  minutes  had  passed  when  the  tele- 
phone bell  sounded  again  and  Jack  sprang  to  the  instrument. 

"That  you,  Eaton?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes.  Thanks.  Sure  it  isn't 
a  stunner?  Yes,  yes.  Thanks.  Good-night.  Sleep  well. 
Pleasant  dreams;"  and  he  showed  his  beaming  face  to  the 
room.  "Now  it  is  all  right — Eaton  says  so ;"  and  he  snapped 
his  fingers.  "Paint  it  up,  Bowling,  old  boy.  Paint  the  map 
red.  Lot  51  Leasehold  sold  to  Mr.  G.  B.  Flower  of  Surbiton." 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Crunden,  in  a  very  husky  voice. 
"Thank  God  for  that.  It's  brought  the  perspiration  out  of 
me  as  though  I'd  been  running  a  race." 

Jack,  hunting  in  a  drawer  for  the  paint-brush  and  saucer, 
looked  round  in  surprise.  "Bid  it  matter,  sir — either  way — 
as  much  as  all  that?" 


HILL  RISE  235 

"It  did  matter,"  said  old  Crunden,  "like  the  very  devil," 
and  he  mopped  himself,  and  with  a  grunt  of  relief  put  his 
bandana  back  in  its  pocket.  "This  comes  in  the  nick  of 
time  to " 

"To  go  on  comfortably  with,"  said  Mr.  Bowling.  "To 
wash  one  hand  with  the  other,  so  to  speak.  Quite  so." 

Jack  was  looking  at  Bowling,  then  again  at  Crunden. 

"I  never  knew,  sir,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  it  could  matter 
like  that.  I  had  no  idea.  I  know  things  were  going  a  bit 
slow  for  you,  but  I  thought  they  were  going  all  right." 

"They  aren't  going  well,"  said  Crunden.  "They've  been 
going  very  badly.  Bon't  run  away,  Lizzie.  It's  proper  you 
should  know.  I  have  kept  it  to  myself  as  long  as  I  could." 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  spoke  to  his  assistants  of  the 
financial  side  of  his  great  scheme.  The  trouble  was  easily 
summed  up :  too  much  money  gone  out,  not  enough  come  home. 
He  told  them  of  his  arrangement  with  the  bank — overdraft 
of  twenty-thousand  pounds,  to  be  reduced  by  one  thousand 
each  quarter  day.  Well,  he  had  made  two  such  reductions 
and  no  more.  The  standing  charge  for  the  borrowed  money 
remained  at  about  £900  per  annum.  The  Bank  had  smilingly 
pouched  this  charge  till  last  midsummer  and  then  had  begun 
to  make  difficulties — in  fact,  had  issued  an  ultimatum;  over- 
draft to  be  reduced  to  seventeen  thousand  by  September  30, 
and  the  stipulated  reductions  to  be  made  punctually  there- 
after, or  the  bank  must  reconsider  its  position.  And  Mr. 
Crunden  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  the  September 
thousand ;  and  this  was  why  he  had  been  so  exceedingly  pleased 
to  find  it  in  the  sale  to  Mr.  Flower  of  Surbiton. 

"Most  convenient,"  said  Bowling  soothingly.  "It  will  all 
come  right  in  the  end,  of  course." 

"So  I  hope.  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  Crunden.  But, 
as  he  explained,  all  his  profit  hung  upon  the  rate  of  speed; 
and  already  the  slowness  had  robbed  the  possible  profit  of 
its  originally  noble  margin.  "Only  proper  you  should  know 
that,  Liz,  my  dear." 

"Bon't  let  us  be  downhearted,"  said  Bowling.  "We  must 
not  allow  Mr.  Vincent  to  go  to  London  with  a  tale  of  diffi- 
culties." 


236  HILL  RISE 

"I  am  not  going  to  London,"  said  Jack,  "in  order  to  tell 
tales  against  the  credit  of  my  friends — or  their  advisers." 

"No,"  said  Crunden.  "We  know  that,  sir.  What's  men- 
tioned in  this  room  won't  be  heard  outside  it." 

Then  Jack  asked  questions — "Do  you  mind  my  asking,  sir  ?" 
It  seemed  to  him  there  must  have  been  some  weak  spot  in  the 
scheme  itself. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  very  good  scheme,"  said  Dowling. 

"But  the  calculations  were  wrong  somehow?"  suggested 
Jack.  "You  know  what  I  said,  sir.  That  I  hoped  you  hadn't 
bitten  off  more  than  you  could  chew." 

"It  was  a  fine  scheme,"  said  Dowling  deprecatingly.  "And 
I  can  answer  for  the  calculations.  They  have  proved  them- 
selves correct,  too.  The  land  we  have  disposed  of  has  ex- 
actly realised  my  estimate  per  acre.  No — the  set-backs  are  all 
outside  the  calculations — things  no  man  could  have  calculated 
for." 

And  Dowling,  as  if  put  on  his  personal  defence,  made  out 
a  list  of  unforeseen  events. 

Dowling  had  counted  on  the  rents  of  Hill  Eise.  These 
would  have  paid  all  interest  on  borrowed  money,  and  brought 
some  equivalent  to  Crunden  for  loss  of  income  from  his 
own  money  buried  deep  in  the  ground.  Now,  as  Mr.  Vincent 
knew,  there  were  only  three  tenants  left  in  Hill  Eise — the 
Miss  Vigors,  who  clung  to  the  vicinity  of  St.  Barnabas* 
Church;  Dr.  Blake,  who  was  having  a  house  built  for  him 
by  the  London  and  Suburban ;  and  Mrs.  Eidgworth,  who  had 
become  bed-ridden  and  could  not  move; — and  these  were 
paying  only  half  the  old  rental.  No  man  could  have  fore- 
told the  Hill  Eise  exodus.  If  the  tenants  had  remained,  one 
could  have  washed  one  hand  with  the  other. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "and  now  you  have  got  both  your  hands 
dirty  together." 

"For  the  moment.  But  all  will  come  right  in  the  end.  .  .  . 
Another  event  no  one  could  have  calculated  for  was  the  sale 
of  Hill  House.  Naturally  the  development  of  those  ten  acres 
— really  better  situated  than  our  land — has  thrown  us 
back."' 

"Yes.    That's  it,"  said  Jack  gravely.    "That  was  your  weak 


HILL  RISE  23T 

spot.  It  seems  to  me  that  has  just  knocked  the  bottom  out  of 
your  scheme." 

"The  scheme  was  right  enough,"  said  Bowling  doggedly. 
"I'll  answer  for  that.  The  delay  is  annoying,  but  it 

Then  once  again  the  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Lord's  sake/'  said  Crunden,  as  Jack  jumped  up  and 
rushed  across  to  his  table.  "Don't  say  it's  them  changed 
their  mind  and  trying  to  back  out." 

"It  is  for  you,  Mr.  Dowling,"  said  Jack,  after  listening- 
to  the  message.  "Somebody  who  requires  you — requires  you 
rather  badly."  Then,  when  Dowling  had  taken  his  place 
at  the  instrument,  he  whispered  to  Crunden:  "It's  his 
wife !" 

"Are  you  there?"  asked  Dowling,  in  a  low  and  very  gentle 
voice.  "Is  that  you,  my  dear?  .  .  .  Yes,  my  dear,  a  busi- 
ness consultation.  ...  I  have  been  somewhat  hard  pushed 
all  day.  If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  not  return  to  supper.  I 
shall  get  all  I  want  here." 

"If  he  isn't  careful,"  whispered  Jack,  "he'll  get  all  he  wants 
there ;"  and  Crunden's  face  relaxed  into  a  broad  grin. 

"Oh,  very  well,  my  dear," — Dowling  was  saying, — "it  shall 
be  as  you  wish,"  and  he  rang  off. 

With  many  apologies  to  Mr.  and  Miss  Crunden  for  break- 
ing an  engagement,  Mr.  Dowling  presently  explained  that 
he  could  not,  after  all,  stay  to  supper  at  King's  Cottage; 
and  he  soon  bade  his  adieux. 

Jack,  in  lieu  of  Dowling,  supped  at  King's  Cottage.  He 
cheered  Crunden  more  effectually  than  Dowling  could  have 
done.  They  talked  for  a  long  time  on  business  matters,, 
and  Jack  listened  with  grave  interest,  and  when  he  asked  a 
question  it  was  always  businesslike  and  intelligent.  Having 
been  admitted  into  the  mysteries  of  finance,  he  was  quick 
to  grasp  the  reciprocal  bearing  of  hitherto  isolated  facts. 

At  supper  Crunden  was  quite  cheerful.  The  sale  of  the- 
house  had  done  him  good ;  the  confidential  talk  had  done  him 
good — everything,  as  Dowling  promised,  would  come  right 
in  the  end.  He  chuckled  at  the  recollection  of  Dowling's 
telephonic  summons. 


238  HILL  RISE 

"I  couldn't  help  but  smile,"  he  said.  "But  if  he'd  caught 
me  at  it,  he'd  have  fairly  jumped  down  my  throat.  Thaf s 
&  thing  I  always  admire  in  Mr.  Dowling.  He's  always  loyal 
to  Mrs.  D. — won't  allow  any  one  to  make  a  joke  of  her: 
although,  as  the  saying  is,  she  is  a  terror — Mrs.  D." 

After  supper,  Lizzie  brought  the  tobacco  jar  and  both  gen- 
tlemen lit  their  pipes. 

"Sure  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Lizzie?"  asked  Jack  politely; 
and  then  he  puffed  in  silence  until  Mrs.  Price  and  the  maid 
had  left  the  room. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  blowing  some  ashes  from  his  pipe,  "if  you 
have  no  objection — I  would  like  to  withdraw  my  notice. 
I  don't  want  to  go.  You  see,  I  didn't  understand — I  had 
no  idea — I  shouldn't  like  to  go  now." 

"You  are  very  welcome  to  stay,"  said  Crunden,  puffing 
noisily  at  his  pipe,  "if  you  care  to,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  You  see,  I  should  be  miserable  if  I  went 
now.  Wherever  I  was,  I  should  be  thinking  of  it.  A  rat  that 
had  left  the  ship.  Not  that  the  ship's  sinking — certainly  not. 
But  I  should  feel  like  that." 

"Then  stay  with  us,  sir." 

"Father,"  said  Lizzie,  "this  won't  be  fair  to  Mr.  Vin- 
cent. .  .  .  Please  tell  my  father  about  the  letter  from  Messrs. 
Griggs — or  I  must." 

"Miss  Lizzie,  this  means  you  don't  want  me  to  stay." 

"It  isn't  fair  to  let  you  stay,"  said  Lizzie.  "Father,  Mr. 
Vincent  had  a  letter  from  Messrs.  Griggs " 

"Oh,  that  was  nothing,  sir — Griggs  said  they'd  take  me 
on;"  and  he  pulled  the  letter  from  his  pocket.  "I  haven't 
answered  Griggs  yet;"  and  he  threw  the  letter  into  the  fire. 
"There,  Miss  Lizzie,  that's  my  answer  to  Griggs." 

But  Lizzie  again  protested. 

"Father,  it  won't  be  fair.  They  offered  Mr.  Vincent  four 
pounds  a  week  to  begin  with,  and  then " 

"Miss  Lizzie,"  said  Jack,  "you  want  me  to  go.  This  means 
you  are  anxious  to  be  rid  of  me." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Crunden,  answering  for  his  daughter,  "it's 
not  that.  It's  only  Lizzie  wishes  me  to  treat  you  fair — and 
not  act  selfish.  Griggs,  they  offered  you  four  pounds.  Well, 


HILL  RISE  239 

I'll  be  as  good  as  Griggs.  I'll  give  you  the  four  pounds,  yes — 
and  think  you  worth  it." 

"No,  not  a  penny  more  than  my  old  screw.  Less  if  you 
like — I  have  no  debts  now.  I  could  do  on  a  quid — till  the 
lane  turns — till  we're  all  out  of  the  wood — you  know." 

"That's  very  handsome  of  you,  sir." 

"Father,  it's  not  fair  to " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  my  girl.  This  is  between  Brother 
Vincent  and  me.  And  I  say:  That's  very  handsome  of  you, 
Brother  Vincent.  I'll  not  forget  it.  No,  I'll  never  forget: 
that  as  long  as  I  live." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THROUGHOUT  the  winter  the  work  went  on — with  little 
success.  Jack  was  indeed  putting  his  back  into  it :  admitted 
now  fully  to  the  confidence  of  his  employer,  he  could  render 
himself  far  more  useful  than  hitherto.  As  he  had  said,  Mr. 
Crunden's  ship  was  certainly  not  sinking;  but  the  order  had 
been  given  to  "shorten  sail."  That  is  always  a  wise  order 
when  there  is  doubtful  weather  about;  but  no  one  need  take 
alarm  when  it  is  heard.  It  is  not,  for  instance,  such  an 
order  as  "all  hands  to  the  pumps."  When  that  comes  through 
the  speaking  trumpet  even  the  rats  may  be  excused  for  feeling 
nervous.  Mr.  Crunden,  then,  as  a  precautionary  measure  was 
trying  to  close  the  yard.  All  the  cottages  were  finished :  he  was 
keeping  only  the  smallest  possible  staff  for  the  completion  of 
the  last  and  innermost  of  the  decoy  houses.  When  that  was 
done,  the  gates  beneath  the  old  archway  would  be  shut  and 
padlocked — unless  dirty  Stevens,  the  dairyman,  cared  to  come 
back  as  tenant. 

Meanwhile,  with  less  to  do  at  the  yard  in  practical  work, 
Jack  threw  himself  upon  the  financial  and  purely  business 
side  of  affairs.  He  went  here  and  there  about  the  country, 
seeking  substantial  adventurers  and  flouting  men  of  straw; 
he  had  devised  plans  for  obtaining  publicity  on  the  cheapest 
terms — advertising  hoardings  to  be  erected,  space  let  to  cover 
cost,  other  space  exchanged  for  Crunden's  advertisements  all 
over  England;  he  had  composed  a  pamphlet — printed  by  Mr. 
Mees, — describing  the  charms  and  amenities  of  Medford, 
and  the  unbuilt-on  paradise  offered  to  the  world  by  Crunden ; 
he  had  important  interviews  every  day,  and  as  Crunden's  rep- 
resentative opened  negotiations  for  mortgages  with  a  dozen 
London  firms,  and  entered  particulars  of  ground  rents  and 
leaseholds  for  sale  on  the  books  of  a  hundred  agents.  In, 
all  directions — at  home  and  abroad — he  displayed  an  unparal- 

240 


HILL  RISE 

leled  energy  which  was  recognised  and  admired  by  his  em- 
ployer. Never  was  man  better  served  by  a  clerk  for  twenty 
shillings  a  week  and  his  food. 

Sometimes  old  Crunden  thought  of  it — and  of  how  sorely 
he  would  have  missed  his  clerk.  For  one  thing,  he  was  so 
cheerful — kept  one  in  heart.  Courage  and  hope  came  from 
him  in  every  dark  hour.  And  dark  hours  were  many  in 
this  long  winter. 

Mrs.  Price,  when  she  heard  that  there  was,  after  all,  to 
be  no  change  of  clerks,  had  uttered  the  liveliest  protestations 
of  pleasure.  She  hastened  to  obtain  from  her  master  a  con- 
firmation of  the  good  news. 

"And  I'm  sorry,  sir,  that  I  spoke  rude.  I  could  have  bit 
my  tongue  off  afterwards  for  what  I  said — but  at  the  time  I 
don't  think  I  knew  what  I  was  saying." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Crunden.  "I  understand  what 
lay  behind  any  remarks  you  let  fall,"  and  he  gave  a  grunt. 
"You're  uncommonly  fond  of — Mr.  Jack?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Price.  "Who  could  help 
being  fond  of  him  ?" 

Not  Mr.  Crunden.  He  had  tried  hard  to  help  it — and  had 
failed.  This  young  man's  voice  was  music,  his  smile  sun- 
shine to  him.  Absurd,  ridiculous!  Old  Crunden  struggled 
valiantly  against  yielding  to  such  preposterous  sentiments — 
as  if  to  yield  had  been  a  base  weakness.  It  had  seemed  to 
him  like  the  evil  spell  of  the  Hill  itself — now  ruined,  broken, 
and  trampled  down — rising  again  to  enthrall  one's  mind  and 
confuse  one's  senses.  Do  what  you  would  to  the  lord  of  the 
Hill,  he  could  bring  you  to  his  feet — force  you  to  bow  before 
him  as  hereditary  immemorial  over-lord.  By  playing  with  the 
snobbish  cravings  that  lurk  in  even  the  stoutest  breast,  he 
could  twist  one  to  the  bended  knee.  With  condescending 
manner  and  flattering  assumption  of  graciousness,  he  could 
persuade  you  to  renounce  your  right  to  be  grim  and  stern 
and  harsh  to  him. 

No,  it  was  not  that.  Crunden  cared  nothing  for  the  con- 
descension harped  upon  by  Dowling.  He  was  fond  of  Jack 
now,  as  forty-three  years  ago  in  the  builder's  yard  where  his 
father  had  sent  him  to  learn  the  trade,  he  had  been  fond 


242  HILL  RISE 

of  his  mate — the  good,  strong  mate  with  whom  he  worked 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  who  could  whistle  and  smile  and  clap 
you  on  the  back,  and  make  the  roughest  job  seem  smooth 
and  easy  because  you  were  doing  it  with  him.  This  young 
man  was  like  that.  And  he  thought  of  all  the  words  that  were 
sweet  as  music.  "As  between  good  pals."  And  the  solid 
truth  behind  the  pleasant  sound — words  proved  true  now  by 
deeds.  His  pal  would  not  leave  him  in  the  lurch — would  stay 
with  him  against  self-interest;  deaf  to  the  chink  of  gold, 
blind  to  the  prospect  of  ease,  his  pal  must  stand  by  him 
though  all  the  world  were  beckoning. 

As  between  good  pals.  Perhaps,  Crunden  thought,  in  all 
his  long  life  he  had  never  been  understood  so  well  as  by  his 
good  pal,  Jack.  His  rough  outer  case  seemed  no  barrier, 
his  coarse  bristles  struck  no  fear — to  Jack :  to  all  the  careless 
crowd,  a  hedgehog;  but  to  Jack,  a  pal.  Wonderful  to  think 
of — with  gratitude  welling  warm  from  the  heart  beneath 
the  hedgehog's  ugly  coat. 

And  he  thought  of  the  historic  fight  on  Guy  Fawkes'  day — 
had  thought  of  it  quite  as  often  as  Mrs.  Price,  though  he  never 
by  any  chance  spoke  of  it.  And  why?  He  couldn't  trust 
himself  to  speak.  Might  let  fall  with  his  remarks  some- 
thing else — a  few  tears.  It  had  happened  in  solitary  thought : 
sudden  moisture  in  the  eyes  demanding  grunts  and  bandana. 
Can  a  hedgehog  weep?  Thinking  of  it  now,  as  he  tramped 
across  his  empty  fields,  he  brought  a  clenched  fist  with  a  loud 
smack  into  the  horny  palm  of  his  other  hand.  "Take  that," 
he  growled,  "and  that — and  that!  That'll  teach  you  to  mock 
my  pal  for  a  hedgehog." 

A  son  could  not  have  done  more  for  a  loved  father.  Jack 
was  what  he  would  have  wished  his  own  son  to  be — in  all 
things.  And  he  thought  of  the  great  Sir  John  and  envied 
him,  intensely  envied  him :  not  for  the  rank,  the  prestige,  the 
respect  of  bowing  men,  which  even  poverty  could  not  take,  and, 
in  fact,  had  not  really  taken,  from  him — but  for  the  son  who 
called  him  father. 

Lizzie,  too,  was  grateful  to  Jack  for  sticking  to  the  ship. 
Although  Jack's  presence  or  absence  was  now,  of  course, — as 


HILL  RISE 

with  firmness,  even  with  defiance,  she  had  asserted, — indiffer- 
ent to  her  personally,  she,  nevertheless,  felt  immensely  grateful 
to  Jack  for  his  fidelity  to  her  father.  It  was  a  fine  trait — 
something  calling  for  candid  acknowledgment  as  worthy  and 
solid.  Candidly  acknowledging  merit,  wherever  met  with,  she 
took  occasion  to  thank  Mr.  Vincent — on  her  father's  behalf. 
Without  hurry,  in  due  season  when  the  opportunity  came, 
she  shyly  thanked  him. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  Miss  Lizzie.  Nothing  to  thank  me  for. 
It's  I  who  ought  to  thank  your  father.  He  has  done  every- 
thing for  me.  I  was  a  dreamer,  and  I  am  awake.  ...  Of 
course  I  couldn't  go — after  what  he  had  said." 

While  he  talked,  he  was  fumbling  in  a  drawer  of  his  table, 
and  presently  he  brought  out  a  small  parcel  and  began  to 
unpack  it. 

"I  never  wanted  to  go.  Only  I  thought  I  ought  to  go — 
but  never  wanted  to,  really.  .  .  .  Miss  Lizzie,  it's  such  a 
rotten  little  thing — that  I  hardly  like — hardly  dare,  don't 
you  know — to  ask  you  to  accept  it;"  and,  tearing  off  the  last 
paper  wrapper,  he  disclosed  and  opened  a  cardboard  box. 
"But  I  wish  you  would.  Seems  silly  to  throw  it  away — and 
silly. to  ask  you  to  take  such  a  rotten  little  thing." 

Then  with  considerable  diffidence  he  offered  Lizzie  the 
plain  gold  bangle  out  of  the  box. 

"I  bought  it,  you  know,  when  I  thought  I  was  going  away 
and  perhaps  might  never  see  you  again.  Just  a  souvenir — 
you  know.  When  I  say  good-bye  to  people — I  always  want 
to  think  they'll  remember  me." 

"It  is  too  kind  of  you.    But  really  I " 

"When  I  wasn't  going,  I  thought  I'd  throw  it  away — but 
that  seems  so  silly.  I  got  Osborn  to  engrave  it  inside — you'll 
,*see,  if  you  look.  Hill  Rise — and  the  two  dates — while  I  was 
here,  don't  you  know.  Rotten  little  thing." 

"No,  I  think  it's  very  pretty." 

"It's  quite  the  worst  bangle  I  ever  bought — but  it's  paid 
for;"  and  he  smiled.  "I  used  to  tick  things,  you  know.  I 
don't  now.  Couldn't  get  tick  if  I  asked  for  it,  I  suppose. 
In  the  old  days  I  bought  quite  different  bangles — pretty 
coloured  stones — and  all  that." 


244  HILL  RISE 

"Oh,  this  is  nicer,  as  it  is." 

"Is  it?  Don't  chaff,  Miss  Lizzie.  But  I  didn't  want  to 
get  anything  better,  really — just  a  souvenir — no  value — be- 
cause you  are  quite  different  to  the  other  people,  and  your 
father  wouldn't  have  liked  it — with  the  stones.  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  take  it,  if  it  was  worth  anything.  There  it  is — 
three-carat  gold,  I  should  think — no  value.  .  .  .  You  will 
take  it,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lizzie.    "Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Vincent." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Lizzie,"  said  Jack,  beaming.  "I  did 
want  you  to  take  it — just  to  show  that  you  feel  kindly  dis- 
posed to  me,  now." 

"Of  course  I  do — very,  very  grateful  to  you,  as  I  said.  You 
must  know  that,  Mr.  Vincent." 

Jack  laughed  contentedly. 

"Not  the  least  need  for  gratitude — all  the  other  way  round. 
Only,  Miss  Lizzie,  when  you  buy  your  next  new  dress,  do  buy 
a  blue  one  with  white  spots.  Then,  when  I  see  you  wearing 
it,  I  shall  know  you  mean  to  be  kind — but,  in  spite  of  my 
repeated  prayers,  you  never  will  buy  a  blue  one.  You  think 
my  taste  in  dress  is  bad." 

"Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  laughing,  "I'll  wear  a  blue  dress.  No, 
I  don't  think  your  taste  is  bad." 

Another  season  had  passed  without  the  purchase  of  a  new 
•dress  of  blue  or  any  other  colour.  But,  that  morning,  up- 
stairs in  her  room,  she  fetched  out  one  of  her  old  blue  dresses 
and  submitted  it  to  careful  examination.  It  was  all  in  order. 
The  blue  showed  sun-fading  here  and  there;  in  the  wash  the 
blue  had  invaded  the  white  spots  on  some  parts  of  it;  and 
the  muslin  collar  and  cuffs  seemed  to  ask  for  renewal;  but 
there  had  occurred  no  startling  change  of  fashion  during  the 
last  three  years:  the  dress  would  do  very  well.  And  Lizzie 
longed  for  the  spring  days  when  she  might  wear  it :  as  a  signal 
of  her  very  sincere  gratitude  to  Mr.  Jack  for  his  kindness — 
to  her  father. 

Lizzie  had  been  drawing  her  full  dress-allowance  from 
papa,  but  instead  of  spending  it,  had  been  hoarding.  Papa 
had  insisted  on  paying  her  in  prompt  cash,  and  would  not  hear 
of  any  cutting-down  of  the  domestic  budget.  "Don't  neglect 


HILL  RISE  245 

yourself,  Liz.  Keep  yourself  up  to  the  mark.  You  can't 
be  too  fine  for  my  mind."  But  Lizzie,  buying  only  a  few  pairs 
of  boots,  gloves,  etc.,  and  perhaps  a  hat  per  annum,  had 
amassed  a  hoard  which  in  its  extent  surprised  papa  when  his 
daughter  brought  it  to  him. 

"Dad — please.  Till  the  lane  turns.  When  we're  out  of 
the  wood,  you  can  give  it  me  all  back — and  then  I  really 
will  be  so  fine  that  you  won't  recognise  me." 

"Liz,  my  dear,  you  shouldn't  have  done  this.    No,  no." 

But  the  pinch  was  so  severe  this  winter  that  Crunden  gave 
in.  He  was  proud  of  Lizzie  for  her  miser-tricks,  and  he 
consented  to  be  debtor  to  his  child,  as  well  as  to  the  bank, 
for  a  temporary  convenience.  Thus  the  money  which  should 
have  been  carried  to  Selkirk,  the  draper,  found  its  way  to 
the  yard;  and  there  cleared  the  pay-sheet  of  the  lessened 
staff  for  a  considerable  number  of  weeks. 

However,  this  cheating  of  Selkirk  was  not  a  matter  which 
Miss  Crunden  could  talk  about  with  papa's  clerk.  She  must 
permit  Mr.  Jack  to  suppose,  if  he  pleased,  that  her  old  frocks 
were  new  frocks;  and  that  she  had  been  buying  them  in  all 
tints  of  the  rainbow — except  blue. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  she  dressed  herself  in  some  staunch 
old  brown  and  went  for  a  long  walk.  The  day  was  bright  and 
windless — just  cold  enough  to  make  all  healthy  folk  enjoy 
fast  walking.  Even  in  the  bright  sunshine  no  one  would  have 
noticed  that  her  brown  fur  boa,  her  brown  coat,  and  skirt  were 
three-year-olders — they  looked  almost  as  good  as  new.  No 
one  would  have  noticed  that  the  brown  toque  and  the  brown 
gloves  were  so  much  younger — quite  as  good  as  new.  The 
gold  bangle  on  her  wrist  was  of  course  brand-new. 

She  went  down  as  far  as  the  bridge;  saw  the  sunshine 
flashing  and  shaking  on  the  muddy  water,  a  wagon  full  of 
beer  from  the  brewery,  Miss  Hope  on  horseback  with  a 
flushed  face  and  disarranged  hair,  squirming  in  the  saddle 
to  wring  the  horse's  back,  while  she  whispered  laughingly  to 
Mr.  Banker  the  riding-master — saw  indeed  all  that  there  was 
to  be  seen  on  the  bridge ;  and  then  turned,  and  walked  briskly 
up  the  hill. 


216  HILL  RISE 

She  walked  fast  and  strong — felt  she  could  now  run  and 
leap  up  the  gentle  slope  instead  of  languidly  crawling  as  in 
those  old  bad  foolish  days  when  Dr.  Blake  advised  quick 
movement.  And  as  with  firm  light  tread  she  passed  by  the 
corner  of  Biver  View,  she  looked  so  pretty  that  all  should 
have  noticed  it.  There  was  colour  in  her  cheeks,  light  in  her 
eyes; — she  looked  slim,  graceful,  and  yet  strong:  noticeably 
the  prettiest,  healthiest,  best  girl  on  the  move  in  Medford 
that  afternoon.  Soon  somebody  did  notice. 

It  was  Mr.  Charles  Padfield. 

"Oh,  I  say.     How're  you,  Miss  Crunden?" 

Mr.  Padfield  was  most  beautifully  dressed.  His  overcoat 
was  of  a  shaggy  heathery  grey,  immensely  loose,  of  the  top 
of  the  fashion,  hanging  in  huge  folds  and  bell-shaped  skirts 
above  trousers  of  the  same  fabric;  his  cap  was  of  gigantic 
size;  and  his  white  silk  stock  bubbled  and  bulged  like  a  mon- 
strous batter-pudding  beneath  his  chin.  Foplike  splendours 
made  themselves  more  vaguely  perceptible — turquoise  pin,  tan- 
leather  waistcoat,  brass  buttons,  etc.  He  was  a  typical  loafing 
son  of  the  Hill,  in  his  well-matured,  full-blown  glory. 

"Which  way  you  going?"  He  had  stopped  her — only  by 
leaving  the  pavement  could  she  have  got  round  him.  She 
had  no  choice  but  to  bear  with  his  vacuous  smiles  and  insipid 
courtesies.  "Hope  you're  all  very  well.  Kipping  day,  isn't 
it?  Where  you  bound  for?  ...  Well,  I'm  off  to  Eudd's  for 
cigarettes.  That's  where  I  must  be  going.  But  I'll  walk  with 
you  a  little  way.  .  .  .  How's  old  Jack?" 

His  eyes  were  like  gooseberries  and  almost  as  expression- 
less; his  stupid  face  was  pallid  and  puffy;  his  mouth  was 
fishlike;  his  cigarette  adhered  to  his  lower  lip  so  that  he  was 
at  no  trouble  to  remove  it  for  conversation.  The  White  Hart 
Hotel  was  telling  on  him:  soon  now  Mr.  Padfield  would  be 
overblown,  altogether  too  ample  and  puffy — like  Mr.  Lardner. 

"We  never  see  old  Jack." 

Lizzie  walked  on,  with  Mr.  Padfield  by  her  side.  As  she 
turned  to  the  right  and  swung  up  Hill  Rise,  she  was  mentally 
comparing  her  escort  with  Jack — the  new  Jack,  no?  the  old 
Jack.  Once  Jack  had  resembled  this  gorgeously  attired  loafer. 
It  was  a  wonderful  transformation  to  the  alert,  thin,  work- 


HILL  RISE 

ing  Jack  of  the  present  time;  and  yet,  in  the  past  she  had 
admired  Jack  because  of  all  these  things  that  filled  her  with 
contempt  for  Mr.  Charles  Padfield.  It  had  seemed  admirable 
to  be  rich  in  fopperies,  careless  of  toil  as  a  creature  of  some 
lofty  ruling  race,  a  splendid  idler,  for  whom  life  is  all  holi- 
days. Now  it  seemed  as  if  fate  had  sent  blown-out,  vacuous, 
insipid  Mr.  Charles  lounging  across  her  path  to  let  her  dis- 
criminate once  again  very  plainly  between  what  is  sham  and 
what  is  solid. 

"You  walk  too  fast." — They  were  halfway  up  Hill  Eise 
and  Mr.  Charles  was  out  of  breath. — "Well,  I  must  be  going. 
Walk  a  little  way  with  you  some  other  time,  Miss  Crunden — 
what?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  say,  tell  your  father  I'm  a  mason  now. 
He  don't  come  to  lodge  now — nor  old  Jack.  Too  busy 
rakin'  in  the  dollars — what?"  And  Lizzie  was  free  to  con- 
tinue her  walk  without  escort. 

The  empty  houses  of  Hill  Eise  were  dreadful  to  see.  Glass 
in  windows  had  been  broken  by  wanton  boys ;  slates  had  fallen 
from  roofs  and  lay  in  fragments  upon  the  moss-grown  steps 
of  porches,  or  the  weed-covered  gravel  of  the  carriage  drives; 
splintered  gates  hung  upon  rusty  hinges;  the  bare  hawthorns 
were  making  thickets,  and  the  untrimmed  laurels  were  grow- 
ing into  forest  trees.  From  house  to  house  silence  and  deso- 
lation reigned  where  once  there  had  been  friendly  intercourse, 
chatter,  and  frivolity — the  Hill  Eise  girls  at  home  whether 
really  at  home  or  visiting ;  calling  to  each  other  by  name  over 
garden  walls  or  across  the  broad  road,  running  in  upon  each 
other  as  members  of  one  large,  highly-distinguished  family. 
Now,  with  the  family  uprooted,  banished,  scattered  wide,  Hill 
Eise  was  fast  sinking  into  the  dilapidated  and  ruinous  state 
of  Mr.  Selby's  Eiver  View. 

Beyond  these  deserted  houses,  when  one  came  to  the  prop- 
erty of  the  London  and  Suburban  Trust,  it  required  the 
strongest  effort  of  memory  to  summon  up  the  picture  of  Hill 
House.  Truly  not  the  slightest  vestige  of  it  was  left.  One 
looked  down  smooth,  well-finished  roads  into  a  little^  thriving 
suburb  of  red-brick  houses.  The  sunlight  shone  on  plate  glass, 
brass  knockers,  emerald  green  shutters;  the  cloud  shadows 
flitted  across  white  woodwork,  rough-cast  upper-stories,  and 


248  HILL  RISE 

stone  copings;  here  was  new  life,  activity,  joyfulness  set 
going  as  if  by  magic.  Tradesmen's  carts  rattled  round  the 
corners  of  the  new  roads;  tradesmen's  boys  leaned  their 
bicycles  against  the  new  railings;  young  men  and  women 
came  laughing  and  talking  out  of  the  new  front-doors ;  a  man 
with  a  bell  was  selling  muffins  as  quickly  as  he  could  hand 
them  to  the  waiting  maids  of  all  these  new  households.  Trade 
was  so  brisk  that  the  muffin  man  had  no  time  to  ring  his 
bell.  This  was  new  Medford,  self-sufficient,  self-contained, 
self-satisfied,  knowing  nothing  of,  and  caring  nothing  for, 
the  ancient  traditions  of  the  aristocratic  Hill. 

Lizzie  with  difficulty  reconstituted  the  vanished  scene.  All 
along  here  were  the  high  walls;  and  behind  them  the  stately 
trees.  Here,  just  here,  must  have  been  the  gates;  and,  paus- 
ing here,  in  the  drowsy  summer  time,  one  used  to  look  down 
the  drive — grass  on  each  side,  and  noble  conifers,  banks  of 
rhododendron,  beautiful  flowering  shrubs  making  spots  of 
bright  colour  in  front  of  the  dark  foliage.  Well-ordered  peace, 
well-maintained  dignity,  well-sheltered  magnificence  held  one 
mute,  respectful,  spellbound,  as,  in  the  old  days,  one  took 
one's  peep  through  the  white  gates  that  guarded  the  home 
of  the  great  Sir  John. 

And  behind  her,  on  her  father's  land,  the  change  was  almost 
as  tremendous.  Who  could  now  believe  that  these  once  were 
secluded  meadows,  a  smiling  parkland,  walled,  fenced,  secure 
from  prying  eyes  and  wandering  feet?  It  was  all  open  to 
the  world  now:  any  one  might  walk  up  Crunden's  roads 
as  far  as  the  roads  went,  and  thence  onward  over  the  wet 
grass.  Any  one  might  roam  at  will,  with  the  children  from 
the  lower  cottages  shouting  and  laughing  in  their  play,  where 
once  the  ground  was  sacred  to  the  use  of  Lady  Haddenham's 
cattle  and  the  members  and  guests  of  an  extraordinarily  select 
tennis  club.  Close  to  the  site  of  the  old  club  pavilion,  the  last 
and  innermost  of  papa's  decoy  houses  stood  still  unfinished: 
for  the  day  abandoned  by  the  workmen,  and  looking  as  if  it 
had  been  abandoned  forever.  The  roof  timbers  were  in  posi- 
tion, but  no  tiles  had  yet  arrived:  it  was  an  ugly  carcass 
very  slowly  turning  itself  into  a  habitable  dwelling.  No  road 
gave  access  to  it;  the  nearest  granite  blocks  for  road-kerbing 


HILL  RISE 

lay  afar  off  almost  hidden  by  the  long  grass,  weather-stained, 
dull,  without  the  least  glitter  from  them ;  scaffold  poles,  piled 
boards,  chipped  bricks  lay  untidily  all  about  it ;  trenches  that 
had  been  dug  for  drains  had  filled  with  water  while  waiting 
for  drain-pipes.  Beyond  it  stretched  the  wide  area  of  still 
open  ground,  spotted  here  and  there  with  completed  houses, 
and  on  the  fringe  the  cottages — smoke  rising  slow  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  first  two  rows,  no  smoke  at  all  from  the 
other  rows — and  the  backs  of  the  monstrous  hoardings  set 
up  for  advertisements.  The  view  was  of  a  park  destroyed,  a 
building  estate  not  yet  developed.  No  one  could  take  comfort 
from  this  great  change,  for  an  undeveloped  building  estate 
is  perhaps  the  ugliest  prospect  in  the  universe. 

As  Lizzie  turned  her  back  on  it  and  walked  swiftly  towards 
the  common,  the  sense  of  guilt  oppressed  her.  Suddenly  she 
had  thought  of  the  first  cause  of  all  these  vast  changes — her- 
self. Her  folly — her  infantile  and  idiotic  folly — had  set  in 
motion  the  whole  chaotic  upheaval  of  hill  and  valley.  If 
she  had  not  been  such  a  little  fool,  all  might  now  be  un- 
changed. If  she  could  have  held  her  tongue  when  papa 
sternly  questioned  her,  perhaps  no  sod  would  have  been  cut, 
no  brick  laid,  no  single  gold  piece  buried  on  the  peaceful  hill- 
side. But  for  her,  the  great  Sir  John  might  be  now  sitting 
in  Hill  House,  Lady  Vincent  picking  dead  leaves  off  an 
azalea  in  the  conservatory,  Mr.  Jack  riding  out  through  the 
gates  on  a  prancing  horse;  Miss  Annendale,  Miss  Granville, 
and  all  the  rest  of  them  might  be  safe  and  happy  in  Hill  Rise ; 
her  father  might  be  placidly  dozing  in  his  armchair  at  home ; 
from  the  flagstaff  on  the  links  to  the  bridge  above  the  slowly 
gliding  river,  all  might  have  been  unchanged.  She  herself 
had  started  all  the  change — with  a  few  foolish  words. 

She  walked  far  across  the  common,  down  the  long  hill 
nearly  to  Eedmarsh  village,  and  then  came  tramping  bravely 
home  again ;  and  all  the  way  she  was  earnestly  thinking,  dis- 
entangling the  things  that  are  solid  from  the  things  that  are 
empty  and  vain,  tracing  out  the  infinitely  small  causes  that 
lead  to  infinitely  big  results,  making  good  resolutions  for 
the  fulfilment  of  homely  duties,  vowing  to  be  stout  and 


250  HILL  RISE 

strong  in  the  face  of  all  difficulties  and  distresses.  If  trouble 
were  coming  to  her  father  in  his  old  age,  she  must  strive 
to  be  his  prop  and  support.  She  must  comfort  him  and 
console  him  for  the  loss  of  his  grandiose  hopes. 

"I  was  a  dreamer  and  now  I  am  awake."  That  was  what 
Mr.  Vincent  said  of  himself,  and  the  phrase  had  startled  her 
because  it  was  exactly  what  she  could  have  said  of  herself. 
Walking  now  past  the  woods  where  she  used  to  sit  and  drean? 
through  long,  lazy  afternoons,  she  thought  that  perhaps  every 
one  is  a  dreamer  by  inclination:  it  is  only  when  you  hold 
fast  to  the  solid  facts  of  life  that  dreams  lose  their  power. 
She  could  not  dream  now  if  she  tried. 

Again,  discriminating  between  substance  and  shadow, 
approving  what  is  real  and  strong,  and  condemning  what  is 
false  and  weak,  she  compared  Mr.  Padfield  with  her  father's 
clerk.  To  Mr.  Padfield,  life  surely  was  a  long  unworthy 
dream :  it  was  the  kindest  thing  you  could  possibly  say  of  this 
outwardly  magnificent,  inwardly  vacuous  gentleman,  that  he 
was  a  dreamer — one  not  awake  to  the  duties  and  responsibili- 
ties of  full-grown,  full-blown  manhood.  Nothing  could  wake 
him.  Lizzie  thought  of  Mamma  Padfield — a  poor  old  woman 
turned  out  of  her  house  by  the  Crunden  enterprise,  sent 
wandering  in  feeble  senile  fury  to  make  for  herself  a  new 
home;  and  the  son  not  caring,  not  aiding,  pitying,  or  raging 
or  fighting — just  dreamily  loafing  as  hitherto.  So  that  he 
had  food  to  eat,  cigarettes  to  smoke,  fiery  drink  to  warm  him, 
a  soft  bed  to  lie  on  at  night,  and  daily  some  of  mamma's 
shillings  to  jingle  in  his  pocket,  he  was  content  and  undis- 
turbed. 

How  different  from  Mr.  Jack!  And  Lizzie  thought  of 
Jack's  self-imposed  labours,  his  abandonment  of  ease  and 
luxury,  his  unshaken  determination  to  be  independent — to 
earn  his  own  bread.  In  spite  of  tears  and  entreaties,  he  had 
steadfastly  refused  parental  assistance  from  the  hour  in  which 
he  knew  that  his  father  had  muddled  himself  into  money- 
difficulties.  "He  will  not  take  one  penny  from  us,  Miss  Crun- 
den. That  is  what  causes  us  such  pain" — and  so  forth.  "It 
is  so  unnecessary,  Miss  Crunden."  Listening  to  Lady  Vin- 
cent's interminable  laments,  it  had  seemed  to  Lizzie  that  Mr. 


HILL  RISE  251 

Jack's  conduct  was  unnecessary,  stupid,  and  unkind.  He 
had  seemed  almost  a  traitor  to  his  class:  an  undutiful  son, 
seeking  to  humiliate  those  who  loved  him,  rather  than  striving 
to  work  out  his  own  redemption.  But  now  she  could  see 
that  all  he  had  done  was  necessary — was  noble  and  grand 
and  good.  She  remembered  his  words  and  his  smile  as  he 
explained  himself  to  her — leaving  her  still  unconvinced.  There 
could  be  no  half-measures  if  he  was  to  succeed  in  his  task. 
"Very  remarkable  thing,  Miss  Lizzie,  for  a  man  of  my  age 
to  be  born  again." 

How  could  she  have  condemned  him  as  wilfully  unkind — 
to  any  one? 

Thinking  of  him  she  stopped,  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
side.  It  was  time  now  to  think  of  something  else.  Was 
he  building  himself  in  her  thoughts  once  again  as  a  hero? 
It  would  be  dreadful  if  he  solidified  himself,  took  bulk  and 
substance,  and  built  himself  high  in  her  thoughts  as  a  real 
hero — not  a  splendid  shadow  thrown  vaguely  on  a  moving 
thought-background  by  the  dim  light  of  Mr.  Mees's  novels. 
He  was  strong  now — alive — full  of  force.  If  he  set  one  dream- 
ing now,  what  overpowering  dreams  they  would  be.  And  she 
paused  in  the  old  foolish  attitude :  hand  on  side,  lips  parted, 
breath  coming  fast. 

She  could  not  dream  now — most  happily  she  had  lost  the 
trick  of  it.  But  walking  on,  she  thought  of  him  all  the  way. 
The  sun  was  sinking — a  yellow  fire  sending  its  last  low 
rays  across  the  earth,  lighting  up  the  tops  of  the  beech  trees, 
but  leaving  the  depths  of  the  wood  dark  and  vague.  Out  of 
the  wood  the  shadows,  gaining  strength  and  boldness,  would 
soon  come  creeping  to  conquer  all  the  world.  Already,  the 
shadows  had  conquered  the  valley — grey  mist  hid  the  river; 
the  town  was  nearly  lost ;  and  lamps  began  to  twinkle  brighter 
and  brighter  in  the  greyness.  Quickly  the  winter  sunset 
faded — first  the  golden  light  grew  dull,  then  red  dust  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  mist-covered  plain — the  glow  of  red  fire 
spreading  above  white  smoke,  and  then  the  dark  cloud-curtains 
coming  slowly  down.  And  then,  in  the  grey  dark,  all  the 
broad  common  and  the  silent  woods  seemed  ghostly,  dream- 
like, and  unreal. 


252  HILL  RISE 

How  could  she  have  believed  him  to  be  unkind?  She 
thought  of  his  kindness  to  her  father — of  his  kindness  to 
herself.  How  very,  very  kind  of  him  to  give  her  a  bangle — 
for  remembrance.  If  she  wanted  materials  for  dream- 
weaving,  she  could  speedily  find  them.  If  she  dreamed  now, 
she  need  only  use  realities  and  twist  them  deftly  for  the 
fabric  of  her  dream. 

As  thus:  Her  influence  over  him!  Pretend  it  had  been 
felt  and  proved  as  very  strong.  Pretend  that  nearly  all 
he  said  and  did  was  influenced  by  her.  She  could  think  of 
how  he  had  cured  himself  of  "pegging" — for  her  sake;  of 
how  anxious  he  seemed  to  tell  her  that  the  cure  was  made — 
"I'm  careful,  Miss  Lizzie,  of  what  I  eat — and  drink" ;  of  how 
he  asked  her  advice  about  the  letter  from  Griggs  before  he 
spoke  of  it  to  any  one.  She  could  pretend  that  there  was 
sadness  in  his  tone  when  he  said — two  or  three  times — "You 
advise  me  to  go.  Yes,  I  thought  you  would."  Then — very 
sadly — "I  think  I  had  better  go."  Could  it  be  that  he  wished, 
hoped,  yearned  to  hear  her  ask  him  to  stay?  His  eyes  were 
on  her  face — seemed  to  burn  her,  his  voice  had  a  vibration 
that  made  her  lips  tremble  so  that  she  could  not  herself  have 
answered  him,  when  he  said :  "This  means  that  you  want  me 
to  go.  This  means  you  are  anxious  to  be  rid  of  me " 

Thus  she  would  dream  now — if  she  let  herself  dream.  She 
pressed  her  hand  to  her  side,  drew  her  breath  faster  and 
faster,  and  hurried  homeward. 

And  close  to  home,  she  saw  him.  It  was  quite  dark  in  Hill 
Rise  and  he  did  not  see  her.  He  was  walking  with  a  lady; 
and,  as  he  and  his  companion  paused  beneath  a  lamp,  Lizzie, 
like  the  ghost  of  one  of  the  Hill  Rise  girls,  flitted  by  in  the 
shadows  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

In  the  lamplight  she  saw  the  lady — prodigious  black  hat 
and  feathers,  ermine  collar,  copper  hair,  red  lips,  white  teeth. 
She  had  never  seen  the  lady  before — but  was  quite  sure  she 
had  often  heard  of  her. 

Miss  Barter? 

Lizzie  that  evening  sat  close  to  her  father  while  he  smoked 
his  pipe,  linked  her  hands  about  his  arm,  pressed  her  soft 


HILL  RISE  253- 

face  against  the  sleeve  of  his  rough  coat — tried  to  show  him 
that,  whatever  else  failed,  his  daughter's  love  could  never 
be  taken  from  him. 

"Father,"  she  whispered,  "promise  you'll  never  mind  really 
— whatever  happens.  If  things  go  wrong  in  the  end,  dad, — 
let's  be  brave  and  not  mind.  What  does  it  matter  really? 
If  you  lose  your  money,  we  can  still  be  happy  without  it. 
And,  dad,  why  go  oh — if  things  don't  work  out  as  you 
thought?  .  .  .  Stop  now — and  save  what  you  can." 

"Lizzie,  my  dear,  I  can't  stop  now — must  go  on.  Be- 
sides, everything  will  be  all  right — in  the  end." 

"Will  it,  dad?  But  what  I  mean  is — don't  try  to  be  rich. 
Money  would  do  us  no  good — either  of  us.  I  would  like 
you  to  save  just  enough  for  us  to  live  on — somewhere — not 
here.  .  .  .  Father — whatever  happens,  take  me  away  from 
here — hundreds  of  miles  away — where  we  can  forget  Hill 
Eise  and  all  about  it.  You  and  I  could  live  in  a  little  cottage 
and  be  quite  happy — just  by  ourselves.  We  don't  want  any 
one  else — you  and  I." 


CHAPTEE  XXI 

IF  Lizzie  could  trace  the  Medford  upheaval  back  to  its 
first  starting  impetus,  no  one  could  measure  its  ever-widening 
-effects.  It  had  completely  broken  up  the  society  of  the  place ; 
it  had  scattered  the  old  social  leaders  and  rendered  the  grand 
old  exclusiveness  irksome  and  impossible.  Union  is  strength : 
heads  of  the  old  Hill  Rise  households  when  isolated  felt  weak 
and  helpless.  If,  among  their  new  neighbours,  they  began 
excluding,  they  might  find  themselves  excluded.  Rather  than 
sit  in  solitude  and  brood  upon  the  old  Medford  social  code, 
with  regret  they  abrogated  it ;  and  when  bidden  to  dinner  by 
persons  of  plebeian  names  and  patently  inferior  status,  said 
they  had  the  honour  to  accept  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Judd's  invitation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Judd  of  the  Redmarsh  Road  perhaps  never 
properly  estimated  their  good  fortune  in  securing  such  guests. 
They  kept  a  fine  table,  and  thought  any  one  might  be  glad 
of  a  place  at  it — they  only  wished  the  table  had  been  bigger. 
"You  must  come  again,"  said  Mr.  Judd,  jovially  wringing 
the  hands  of  Major  and  Mrs.  Annendale,  Captain  Sholto,  or 
Mrs.  Page,  as  the  case  might  be.  "The  wife  and  I  like  to  live 
neighbourly,  and  welcome  newcomers.  If  our  table  was  larger, 
we'd  have  asked  your  girls,  too.  But  next  time,  why  not  let 
them  come  round  after  dinner — for  a  little  music,  or  a  game 
of  billiards  with  our  young  men  ?  We've  a  good  billiard-room 
— full-sized  board — and  the  short  cue  only  wanted  at  the 
spot-end — and  in  front  of  the  mantelpiece.  I  built  the  room 
to  please  Mrs.  Judd.  If  young  men  like  playing  billiards,  we 
say  let  them  play  at  home — not  go  out  to  the  tavern.  My 
sons  work  hard  all  day — and  have  earned  their  evening's 
amusement." 

In  this  manner  the  honest  Judds  talked  to  the  haughty 
Annendales — as  if  to  bosom  friends  with  whom  ceremony  would 
be  foolish.  And  the  Judds  were  not  remotely  connected  with 

254 


HILL  RISE  255 

trade:  they  were  in  trade — up  to  the  neck  in  it — Bream  & 
Judd,  Plate  and  Cutlery,  High  Holborn. 

One  cannot  but  suppose  that  there  was  hot  revolt  in  the 
breast  and  scornful  flash  of  the  eyes  when  the  old  Hill  Else 
girls  received  the  message,  and  learned  that  they  were  free 
to  put  on  galoches,  patter  down  the  road,  and  join  the  Judd 
young  men  after  the  dinner  party.  What  next?  Upon  my 
word !  Nevertheless,  Miss  Annendale — drawling,  shaking 
hands  just  under  chin,  with  six  rows  of  imitation  pearls  round 
her  proud  throat,  with  a  bodice  that  would  have  been  too  low 
but  for  the  sham  orchids — was  a  new,  strange,  beautiful  orna- 
ment found  in  the  Judd  drawing-room  by  the  sons  of  the 
house  on  the  occasion  of.  the  next  Judd  dinner.  "Come  now, 
that's  friendly,"  said  red-faced  Mr.  Judd,  senior,  slipping 
a  warm  podgy  hand  beneath  Miss  Annendale's  bare  arm. 
"Muriel — Herbert — Sydney,  here's  a  pleasant  surprise.  Here's 
Miss  Annendale.  Take  her  to  the  billiard-room  with  you— 
and  don't  you  boys  choke  her  with  your  cigar  smoke." 

Truly  the  spirit  of  the  Hill  Eise  girls  was  broken.  Old 
Crunden — to  quote  his  own  violent  phrase — had  smashed 
down  all  their  nonsense.  Separate  them  and  they  were  at 
the  mercy  of  a  rude  world.  Only  when  they  were  together 
could  they  hold  their  own.  No  more  might  they  whistle 
or  call  by  Christian  name  from  house  to  house;  run  in  upon 
each  other  for  counsel  and  support;  rarely  might  they  move 
in  couples,  never  as  a  full  pack.  Their  hats  and  frocks  were 
no  longer  of  one  pattern;  the  old  costume-note  was  lost;  the 
Hill  Eise  girls  were  lapsing  into  the  general  aspect  of  any 
other  girls. 

The  success  of  the  Judds  was  typical  of  other  people's 
success.  The  Granvilles,  the  Beaumonts,  the  Meldews  now 
visited  the  Paynes,  the  Mills,  and  the  Franks.  In  a  year  the 
Hill  Eise  girls  were  glad  to  go  wherever  you  asked  them. 
Falling  thus  into  the  arms  of  that  black-coated  throng  which 
streamed  out  of  Medford  every  morning  and  worked  in  Lon- 
don all  day,  the  Hill  Eise  girls  soon  began  to  do  without  the 
least  trouble  that  which  in  the  grand  old  time  had  pre- 
sented insurmountable  difficulties.  They  began  to  get  married. 

It  is  but  the  first  step  that  costs  a  pang  in  these  matters.. 


256  HILL  RISE 

When  once  Miss  Granville  addressed  Miss  Judd  as  Muriel,  it 
was  a  painless  transition  to  the  calling  of  Miss  Judd's  brother, 
Herbert.  During  the  last  two  years  there  had  been  more 
betrothals  in  the  high  families  than  for  the  six  previous 
years.  The  bells  of  St.  Barnabas  soon  made  sweet  bell-music 
for  Ethel  Page,  Mabel  Blake,  Lil  Meldew,  etc.;  and  for  all 
these  veiled  and  wreathed  patricians,  the  bridegroom  was  a 
.season-ticket  owner,  who  sat  on  an  office  stool. 

No  one  was  surprised  when  Miss  Annendale  at  last  ceded  to 
ihe  importunity  of  Mr.  Tubby  Frank.  He  too  habitually 
wore  a  black  coat,  used  a  season-ticket,  and  sat  on  a  leather- 
. seated  stool.  He  was  employed  by  a  firm  of  accountants  who 
held  annual  audits  for  one  of  the  smaller  public  offices;  and 
Miss  Annendale,  drawling,  was  therefore  able  to  describe  her 
future  husband  as  something  under  Government.  "But  you 
know  what  the  Civil  Service  is  nowadays.  Tubby  and  I  are 
going  to  have  nothing  to  live  on  but  bread  and  cheese  and 
love." 

As  happy  and  contented  wives,  or  with  prospects  of  attain- 
ing sooner  or  later  to  wedded  bliss,  perhaps  the  Hill  Kise 
girls,  if  they  in  their  turn  analysed  causes  and  consequences, 
were  now  grateful  to,  rather  than  angry  with,  Mr.  Crunden 
for  setting  them  on  the  roll  downhill. 

"'Tis  an  ill  wind,"  said  Mr.  Selby,  "that  blows  nobody 
good."  This  was  when  Mrs.  Padfield  took  Number  4,  Eiver 
View.  And  Mrs.  Padfield  was  followed  into  River  View  by 
Mrs.  Page  and  Mrs.  Chudleigh.  Three  of  the  neglected  houses 
•of  this  gloomy  and  unfortunate  terrace  thus'  found  tenants, 
thanks  to  Mr.  Crunden. 

"'Tis  just  the  other  way  about  to  what  I  expected,"  said 
Selby.  "Ye've  emptied  your  own  houses  to  fill  mine,  young 
Crunden.  'Twill  be  the  making  of  me — me  ta'ask,  in  paying 
interest  on  the  mortgages,  will  be  light  now,  to  what  it  was, — 
and  me  poor  young  wife  will  have  her  treat  once  in  a  way 
with  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Indeed,  to  any  candid  and  unprejudiced  observer,  it  must 
have  been  apparent  that  many  people  in  Medford — besides  old 
Selby  and  the  marriageable  young  ladies — had  derived  bene- 
fits from  Crunden's  initiative.  If,  still  tracing  things  back 


HILL  RISE  257 

to  their  source,  you  ascribed  the  advent  of  the  London  and 
Suburban  Trust  to  Crunden,  you  found  more  and  more  peo- 
ple who  should  have  thanked  him  instead  of  upbraiding  him. 
The  sleepy  town  seemed  to  have  shaken  off.  its  torpor.  Med- 
ford — when  compared  with  its  stagnant  past — was  plainly 
booming.  In  less  than  three  years  £11,000  had  been  added  to 
the  rateable  value  of  the  municipal  borough,  and  the  borough 
rate  had  fallen  4d.  in  the  £1.  Population  had  been  drawn 
io  Medford:  over  two  hundred  new  families  had  come  into 
Medford,  and  not  one  family  had  gone  out  of  it.  Wherever 
you  turned,  you  could  see  evidences  of  prosperity — from  the 
brick  and  tile  yards  down  by  the  river,  to  the  new  toy  depart- 
ment at  Selkirk's  extended  premises.  Trade  had  never  been 
so  brisk:  all  the  shops  were  thriving;  the  weekly  circulation 
of  the  Medford  Advertiser  had  gone  up  nearly  a  thousand; 
the  Eailway  Company  was  giving  a  better  train  service,  and 
promised  further  to  increase  and  accelerate  it.  Certainly  the 
place  was  now  overbuilt,  but  it  would  soon  fill  up;  and 
the  prosperous  town  could  afford  to  wait  in  patience  for 
the  filling-up  process,  even  if  delay  meant  ruin  to  Mr. 
Crunden. 

Mr.  Hope  of  the  Advertiser  was  the  first  observant  person 
who  candidly  confessed  that  there  had  been  utilitarian  gains  as 
well  as  sentimental  losses  from  the  changes  on  the  Hill.  Mr. 
Hope  had  come  to  King's  Cottage  for  an  affable  business  chat 
with  Crunden's  clerk.  It  distressed  Mr.  Hope  to  see  all  the 
Crunden  printing  go  to  Mr.  Mees  the  stationer.  These 
pamphlets,  leaflets,  and  so  forth, — "excellently  written  pieces, 
Mr.  Vincent."  Why  not  let  Mr.  Hope  run  them  off  at  the 
Advertiser  office?  At  least  let  Mr.  Hope  have  a  fair  share  of 
the  orders.  And  Mr.  Hope  scoffed  at  Mees  and  his  spectacled 
son — not  printers  at  all — stationers,  who  pottered  about  in  a 
back-room  with  a  hand-press,  like  children  playing. 

"Beally,  I  doubt  if  Mees  has  advanced  far,  either  in  tech- 
nique or  machinery,  from  Caxton  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
You  know  the  picture,  Mr.  Vincent, — a  very  beautiful  thing 
with  which  I  used  to  refresh  my  eyes  as  a  lad — on  the  walls 
of  the  National  Gallery  often  and  often — when  studying  short- 
hand at  the  Pitman  School.  .  .  .  Whereas  in  the  Advertiser 


258  HILL  RISE 

works  we  can  challenge  comparison  with  the  up-to-date 
machinery  of  a  big  London  Daily.  Give  us  a  chance,  Mr. 
Vincent,  of  showing  what  we  can  do." 

"We'll  think  about  it,"  said  Jack;  "though,  upon  my  life, 
I  don't  see  why  we  should  reward  you  for  slanging  us  every 
week  for  three  years.  Old  Mees  gave  us  more  or  less  friendly 
on-dits  from  the  first." 

Then  Mr.  Hope  talked  very  pompously  about  his  organ,  and 
very  bitterly  of  his  rival's  sheet.  You  must  not  speak  of  the 
Bulletin  in  the  same  breath  with  the  Advertiser.  He  told 
Mr.  Vincent  that  an  organ  of  public  opinion,  such  as  the 
Advertiser,  was  a  mighty  engine — it  needed  very  skilful  guid- 
ance. 

"Well,"  said  Jack  crudely,  "will  you  reverse  your  mighty 
engine,  and  go  full  speed  astern — if  we  make  it  worth  your 
while  by  sending  down  a  few  orders?" 

But,  at  this  crudeness,  Mr.  Hope  was  for  a  moment 
offended. 

"Not  for  thousands  of  pounds,"  said  Hope  staunchly, 
"would  I  tamper  with  my  trust  or  print  one  line  that  did  not 
convey  my  firm  conviction." 

"Of  course,"  said  Jack,  laughing.    "Only  my  joke." 

"I  do  not,  however,  pretend  to  infallibility,  Mr.  Vincent. 
Tempora  mutantur.  And  this  I  can  say  at  once.  It  is  my 
business  to  gauge  public  opinion — and  for  some  little  time 
I  have  detected  symptoms  of  a  change  in  public  opinion.  I 
should  call  it  the  turn  of  the  tide,"  said  Mr.  Hope,  with 
'excessive  pomposity.  "To  be  frank — so  far,  Mr.  Crunden's 
operations  have  not  injured  the  town  in  the  manner  we  all 
anticipated.  We  are  beginning  to  see  that  we  were  too  hard 
on  Mr.  Crunden." 

Jack,  smiling,  made  expressive  pantomime:  with  his  right 
hand  he  pushed  down  an  imaginary  lever,  and  with  his  left 
opened  an  invisible  valve. 

"Half-speed  astern,  eh,  Mr.  Hope?" 

"The  turn  of  the  tide,  Mr.  Vincent.  Nothing  else.  I  have 
here,"  and  Mr.  Hope  tapped  his  forehead,  "the  germ  of  a 
series  of  articles.  Title:  The  New  Medford — description, 
week  by  week,  of  the  development  and  altered  conditions  of 


HILL  RISE 

our  town.  In  these  articles — if  they  are  ever  penned — justice 
shall  be  done  to  Mr.  Crunden.  I  could  not  conscientiously 
pen  this  series  without  doing  tardy  justice  to  Mr.  Crun- 
den." 

Mr.  Hope,  ere  he  allowed  Jack  Vincent  to  continue  his 
work,  promised  that  Miss  Irene  would  pay  a  call  on  Miss 
Lizzie. 

"My  daughter  has  lost  sight  of  her  favourite,  but  would 
be  pleased  to  renew  the  old  pleasant  intercourse.  Pray  tell 
Miss  Crunden  that  Irene  will  look  in  some  day  after  her 
ride.  Irene  is  never  content  except  en  amazone— devoted  to 
equestrian  exercise." 

And  again,  when  really  going  at  last,  Mr.  Hope  spoke  of 
the  turning  tide. 

"I  had  a  chat  with  your  honoured  father  on  Tuesday,  and 
rejoiced  to  see  him  in  such  good  health.  Sir  John  is  gloriously 
robust,  Mr.  Vincent, — his  attitude  to  life  always  has  im- 
pressed me — so  lofty  and  aloof,  and  yet  with  keenest  sympathy 
for  the  welfare  of  the  world." 

"Oh,  Sir  John  is  topping — thank  you." 

"We  chatted  together  of  you — and  Mr.  Crunden.  Sir  John 
impressed  me  by  his  magnanimity.  Sir  John  bears  no  malice 
for  that  terrible  outbreak  at  the  meeting — spoke  most  kindly 
of  Mr.  Crunden.  Said  he  thought  Mr.  Crunden  deserves  all 
his  success.  I  was  greatly  impressed — for  what  Sir  John 
thinks  to-day,  all  Medford  will  be  thinking  to-morrow.  I  say 
that  without  a  suspicion  of  flattery.  It  has  always  been  so — • 
as  long  as  I  can  remember  Medford." 

Sir  John  bore  no  malice :  was  now  entirely  reconciled  to  the 
new  order  of  things.  The  plain  fact  was  that  if  Richard 
Crunden,  mysteriously  and  unintentionally  working  as  an  in- 
strument of  beneficent  fate,  had  earned  heartfelt  thanks  from 
any  one,  it  was  from  Sir  John  Vincent.  Not  quite  at  first, 
but  gradually,  Sir  John  must  have  realised  that  he  was  a 
happier,  lighter,  more  eupeptic  baronet  in  Chiselhurst,  his 
bandbox  of  a  villa,  than  he  had  been  in  the  spacious  halls  of 
Hill  House. 

He  was  a  man  who  for  many  years  had  carried  a  heavy 


260  HILL  RISE 

incubus  and  foolishly  thought  it  a  comfort  and  a  joy.  Only 
when  the  incubus  had  been  lifted  and  thrown  down,  did  he 
begin  to  know  what  was  what  with  regard  to  this  and 
all  other  matters.  Now  he  was  a  free  man — able  to  breathe 
• — able  to  think — not  the  harassed  guardian  of  useless 
grandeurs.  And  yet,  in  all  essentials,  he  was  still  the 
great  Sir  John.  He  was  touched  by  finding  that  people 
treated  him  as  respectfully  as  ever.  Whether  on  the  bench 
with  his  brother  magistrates,  or  in  the  chair  at  political  gath- 
erings, sitting  at  the  tanklike  club  among  those  queer  old 
fish,  the  members,  or  walking  through  High  Street,  he  could 
discover  no  abatement  in  the  deference  that  all  showed  him. 
Intrinsically,  he  was  still  the  great  Sir  John — nothing  had 
dimmed  his  real  glory. 

Secretly  he  was  well-pleased  that  Hill  House  and  grounds 
should  be  wiped  out  of  existence.  Since  they  were  lost  to 
him,  it  was  best  to  get  them  obliterated.  There  would  have 
been  pain  and  discomfort  in  seeing  another — say  Mr.  Wace 
the  brewer — occupy  the  place  and  space  which  he  had  once 
filled.  He,  the  biggest  man  in  Medford,  had  lived  so  long 
in  Hill  House  that  perhaps  the  legendary  bigness  would  have 
clung  to  the  house  itself — have  passed  to  the  new  tenant  with 
mantelpieces,  roller-blinds,  kitchen-dresser,  and  other  land- 
lord's fixtures.  But,  as  the  house  was  destroyed,  the  legend 
clung  to  the  man ;  and  Sir  John  had  been  able  to  take  it  with 
him  to  the  Kedmarsh  Eoad. 

Gradually,  then,  he  settled  down  not  unhappily  at  red-tiled 
Chiselhurst.  There  was  pleasure  in  slowly  establishing  him- 
self, furnishing  rooms,  hanging  pictures,  arranging  bric-a^ 
brae.  Little  things  had  always  interested  Sir  John;  and  to 
amuse  one's  self  with  small  matters,  vast  space  is,  of  course, 
not  necessary.  He  was  steward  of  the  little  house  as  of  the  big 
one;  and  he  had  the  faithful  Short — now  butler-factotum, 
without  footmen — to  assist  him  and  say  "Yes,  Sir  John"  and 
"No,  Sir  John"  all  day  long  as  in  the  past. 

The  installation  of  the  library,  or  study,  was  a  protracted 
task;  but  finally  he  and  Short  accomplished  it  to  the  taste  of 
both.  The  room  was  brighter  and  gayer  than  the  old  room 
on  the  Hill;  it  had  a  bow  window  like  the  front  of  a  large 


HILL  RISE  261 

brougham,  through  which  one  looked  out  into  a  narrow  little 
garden  that  invited  labour  and  ingenuity  to  embellish  it.  At 
last  the  bookcases  were  set  up  and  filled  with  the  old  volumes, 
the  writing  table  was  insinuated  through  the  restricted  door- 
way, and  all  the  old  tin  boxes  were  accommodated  to  their 
narrower  resting-place. 

Then  Sir  John  was  able  to  sit  again  in  state;  and,  with 
Short,  transact  the  household  business. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Short,  quite  in  the  grand  old  style, 
"to-morrow,  Sir  John,  will  be  the  day  for  the  writing  of  the 
cheques." 

And  with  sunshine  pouring  in  through  the  diminutive 
windows,  Sir  John  wrote  the  cheques  and  put  a  grand  and 
easy  flourish  under  each  of  his  signatures.  It  was  easy 
stewardship  now — small  cheques  and  the  certainty  of  a  bal- 
ance to  meet  them.  There  were  no  dark  shadows  about  the 
corners  of  the  sunny  room;  the  old  tin  boxes  were  all  empty; 
one  might  open  all  the  cupboards  beneath  the  bookshelves 
without  dread  of  finding  skeletons  in  them.  And  it  must  be 
confessed,  too,  that  the  accountancy  required  by  Short's 
weekly  book  was  the  easier  and  pleasanter  for  the  certainty 
that  one's  budget  would  not  be  upset  by  unexpected  entries 
of  "Mr.  John,  £2.10.0";  "Mr.  John,  10s.";  "Mr.  John, 
15s.7d." 

"Is  that  all  this  morning,  Short?" 

"That  is  all,  Sir  John." 

The  contents  of  the  tin  boxes  had  gone  to  London.  Sir 
John  had  unreservedly  placed  himself  in  the  hands  of  his 
solicitors :  it  was  their  duty  now  to  maintain  a  modestly  suffi- 
cient balance  at  the  bank;  for  them  was  all  the  weariness  of 
putting  straight  and  tidy  the  muddle  that  Sir  John  had 
made.  Sir  John  might  now  pile  up  the  papers  on  his  desk, 
accumulate  a  litter  of  documents,  and  surround  himself  with 
innumerable  files  of  scribbled  memoranda;  but  he  could  not 
any  more  hurt  himself  by  doing  so.  All  dangerous  papers 
were  in  safe  hands.  How  rich  was  Sir  John,  how  poor  was 
Sir  John,  in  what  manner  had  he  come  to  grief,  and  why? 
Sir  John  could  never  have  answered  these  baffling  questions. 
Answers  to  all  such  enigmas  must  now  be  supplied  by  the  wise 


262  HILL  RISE 

men  of  law.  And  the  knowledge  that  self-catechism  was  done 
with  forever,  made  Sir  John  sleep  soundly,  walk  lightly, 
and  digest  food  quickly. 

It  appeared  to  the  solicitors  that  their  client  had  always 
been  unable  to  distinguish  capital  from  income.  It  was  as  if 
the  difference  between  money  and  the  product  of  money  was 
to  Sir  John  something  unthinkable — as  the  fourth  dimension, 
or  consciousness  resulting  from  molecular  motions,  or  a  uni- 
verse not  eternal,  are  to  many  other  men.  But  this  inability 
was  only  one  of  the  weaknesses  in  Sir  John  when  considered 
purely  as  a  business  man.  He  had  been  rash  in  speculation — 
buying  shares  in  the  wildest  concerns,  paying  calls  when  the 
venture  was  fatally  rotten,  forfeiting  his  holding  in  the  rare 
cases  when  the  thing  was  about  to  turn  up  trumps.  He  had 
borrowed  money  at  a  high  rate  to  lend  it  again  at  a  low 
rate.  He  sold  the  gilt-edged  securities  which  he  had,  because 
he  put  himself  into  dilemmas  by  selling  the  wild-cat  stock 
which  he  had  not.  He  had  written  scathing  rebukes  to  re- 
spectable stockbroking  firms  for  attempting  sharp  practice,  and 
had  sent  warm  thanks  to  bucket  shops  for  opening  his  eyes 
to  the  modern  system  of  profit-snatching.  In  a  word — his 
own  word — he  had  muddled  things. 

But  out  of  the  darkness  gleams  of  light  began  soon  to 
emerge.  Here  a  gleam,  there  a  gleam — enough  light  for 
lynx-eyed  lawyers  to  work  by.  Affairs  not  perhaps  as  bad 
as  we  feared.  Give  us  time,  and,  may  be,  we  shall  have  a 
fairly  good  report  to  submit.  Before  long  there  came  down 
from  London  the  explicitly  comforting  statement:  Assets 
sufficient  to  meet  all  claims,  and  with  careful  realisation  to 
yield  handsome — very  handsome — surplus. 

Sir  John  stepped  more  lightly  still  when  he  knew  that  every 
tradesman  holding  an  appointment  to  Hill  House  had,  after 
so  many  payments  on  account,  received  his  payment  in  settle- 
ment. "Good-morning,  Sir  John,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  bowing 
low.  "Your  lawyers,  Sir  John,  have  insisted  on  squaring  me 
off  with  a  cheque  to  balance.  I  didn't  wish  it,  Sir  John.  I 
told  them  when  convenient  to  you,  Sir  John,  and  not  before." 
Mr.  Brown  and  the  others  would  have  waited  till  the  crack 
of  doom:  nothing  could  shake  Sir  John's  credit  with  them; 


HILL  RISE  263 

their  only  anxiety  had  been  to  secure  the  warrant  as  purveyors 
to  Chiselhurst  now  that  the  Hill  House  warrant  had  expired. 
If  you  chanced  to  hear  them  boastfully  shouting  in  their 
shops,  you  could  not  doubt  that  their  customer  had  retained 
his  legendary  importance.  "Saddle  o'  lamb  for  Chiselhurst. 
Come,  come,  don't  go  to  sleep  with  that  little  saddle  what  I 
trimmed  for  Sir  John."  Or,  "Where's  those  two  Chiselhurst 
soles — for  Sir  John  and  her  ladyship?  Bustle, my  lad, bustle." 
Nevertheless,  though  he  appreciated  this  faithful  homage, 
Sir  John  twirled  his  stick  higher,  cocked  his  hat  more  jauntily, 
said  "How  do,  Brown"  with  a  livelier  air,  when  he  knew  that 
all  old  debts  had  been  extinguished. 

There  was  Lady  Vincent's  income  to  go  on  with — £700  per 
annum, — in  itself  enough  for  up-keep  of  Chiselhurst;  there 
was  money  coming  from  London — and  very  soon  now  it  came. 
There  was  enough  money  for  everybody — quite  enough  to 
supply  Jack,  if  one  could  have  prevailed  on  him  to  take  his 
share.  In  the  second  year  Sir  John  built  out  a  conservatory 
for  my  lady,  filled  it  with  the  flowers  she  loved,  bought  a 
sundial,  dug  ground,  and  constructed  a  square  basin  for 
water-lilies  with  a  tiny  fountain  jet  to  play  on  the  lilies; 
and,  walking  backwards  from  the  house  to  obtain  a  compre- 
hensive view  of  the  conservatory  and  sundial,  fell  into  the 
basin — but  did  not  injure  himself. 

Nothing  could  injure  him  now — he  felt  so  light  in  body, 
so  free  in  mind.  During  the  third  year  he  was  able  to  allow 
good  Lady  Vincent  petty  cash  almost  on  the  old  scale  for 
her  charitable  needs — and  humble  friends  came  for  doles  to 
Chiselhurst  with  nearly  as  much  confidence  as  they  had  felt 
when  plodding  up  the  hill  and  through  the  white  gates.  More 
and  more  snug  little  sums  were  coming  from  London — enough 
for  immediate  use ;  enough  to  put  by  for  the  future.  But  was 
it  worth  while  bothering  one's  self  about  the  future?  The 
future  could  take  care  of  itself.  Out  of  the  cloudy  future 
there  must  come,  sooner  or  later,  a  golden  sunburst.  Sir 
John,  with  less  and  less  reticence,  talked  now  of  those  settled 
funds  from  which  he  was  shut  out  only  by  a  creaking  door. 
Cousin  Harriet  could  not  hang  on  forever.  Nature  has  her 
inexorable  laws,  which  no  poor  old  dear  can  brush  aside, 


264  HILL  RISE 

Some  day  Miss  Vincent  must  go — and  she  could  not  take  the 
money  with  her. 

Thus,  when  Jack  on  these  cold  winter  evenings  changed  his 
working  clothes  to  the  orthodox  swallow-tails,  and  dropped  in 
for  dinner  at  Chiselhurst,  it  was  to  meet  a  reconciled  happy 
papa,  as  well  as  a  proudly  smiling  mamma.  Every  one  was 
glad  to  see  him;  no  one  reproached  him.  Time  had  won 
him  full  pardon  for  all  his  absurdities.  Indeed,  Sir  John, 
with  so  many  little  things  to  occupy  his  thoughts,  had  ceased 
to  think  either  very  frequently  or  very  seriously  of  his  vagrant 
son.  He  and  Jack  were  the  best  of  pals,  but  each  had  gone 
his  own  way.  And  why  not?  "Live  and  let  live"  was  now 
Sir  John's  motto — except,  of  course,  as  applied  to  the  sad 
case  of  people  who  have  long  lost  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and 
yet  will  go  on  living. 

You  could  catch  all  the  lightness  and  tolerant  geniality  of 
Sir  John  in  the  tone  of  his  greeting  when  nowadays  Jack 
appeared. 

"Jack,  my  dear  fellow — }^ou're  the  very  fellow  I  wanted 
to  see.  Your  mother  will  be  down  directly.  Look  here — at 
those  engravings — Morlands.  Picked  'em  up  at  Crossby's 
in  Water  Lane.  Deuced  good,  ain't  they?  Now,  where  are 
we  to  hang  them?  Short  wants  'em  in  the  library.  I  say 
in  here — if  we  can  make  room  for  them.  Short,  try  this 
against  the  wall.  Hold  it  up  before  that  sea-piece,  Short." 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

Short — a  docile  and  admiring  parlourmaid  under  him — 
served  the  dinner  with  a  pomp  that  was  now  tempered  by 
snugness  and  prettiness.  There  was  the  fine  cut  glass,  the 
grand  china  with  the  arms  of  the  family  in  their  true  heraldic 
colours,  the  massive  silver  almost  bearing  down  with  its  hun- 
dreds of  ounces  the  new  spindle-legged  Sheraton  sideboard — 
all  this  was  of  the  old  style;  but  the  maid  had  fantastic  little 
tricks  of  decorating  the  table  with  streamers  of  maiden-hair 
fern,  and  was  apt  to  tie  up  the  French  bread  in  green  ribbons ; 
there  were  fluffy  feathery  shades  upon  the  candles;  the  fire- 
light sparkled  on  quaint  brass  dogs,  flashed  in  little  blue  tiles 
beneath  the  white  mantel-shelf — and  all  this  was  of  the  new 
style. 


HILL  RISE  265 

Sir  John  throughout  the  dinner  sustained  the  conversation 
— chattering  amiably  to  Jack,  to  his  wife,  to  Short,  and  to 
the  maid, — and  never  allowed  the  talk  to  flag  by  unduly  paus- 
ing for  replies. 

"Well,  Jack,  what's  the  best  news  with  you?  Short,  where 
do  you  get  this  pepper?  I  don't  like  it.  Cayenne.  Nepaul. 
Get  Nepaul.  Edith,  go  into  my  room  and  fetch  the  Times. 
I  left  it  in  my  armchair.  My  dear,  I  want  to  read  you  a 
police-court  case — most  consummate  impudence  I  ever  heard 
of.  After  the  fish — after  I've  done  the  fish.  Very  good  sole, 
isn't  it  ?  We  have  saddle  of  mutton  to  follow,  Jack.  .  .  . 
Now  then.  Look  here.  Here  we  are;"  and,  adjusting  his 
glasses,  Sir  John  recited  how  and  in  what  manner  a  man 
pretending  to  be  a  baronet  had  fraudulently  obtained  goods. 
"And  this  fellow  lets  him  off  with  a  caution,"  cried  Sir  John, 
putting  down  the  paper  to  attend  to  the  mutton.  "I'd  have 
given  the  fellow  ten  }rears'  hard.  Defence — and  it's  no  defence 
— was,  the  fellow  had  always  catted  himself  Sir  William,  was 
known  as  Sir  William,  and  did  not  assume  the  title  for 
purpose  of  fraud — believed  he  was  a  baronet.  Deuce  take 
the  fellow's  impudence,"  and  Sir  John  indignantly  bolted 
large  mouthfuls  of  mutton.  "I've  looked  him  up  in  Burke, 
and  Lodge.  No  such  baronetcy,  of  course.  Fellow's  no  more 
a  baronet  than  Short  is.  Eh,  Short?  If  ever  you  leave  my 
service — and  I  hope  you  won't — don't  you  go  about  calling 
yourself  Sir  Thomas  Short." 

"Certainly  not,  Sir  John,"  said  Short,  opening  wine  at  the 
Sheraton  sideboard. 

Papa  and  Short  always  brought  out  their  best  wine  for 
this  guest,  but  mamma  was  delighted  to  observe  that  the 
beloved  guest  drank  sparingly — no  matter  how  rare  the 
vintage.  Her  eyes  grew  bright  and  her  heart  melted  in  thank- 
fulness when  she  heard  the  maid  asked  for  some  more 
apollinaris. 

Once  Sir  John  unconsciously  frightened  Jack  by  begging 
for  his  opinion  as  a  wine-expert. 

"Look  here,  Jack — my  dear  fellow.  You  must  help  me 
to  crack  a  bottle  of  pop  to-night.  Short — that  new  cham- 
pagne. We'll  try  it  now.  Jack,  I  want  your  true  opinion. 


266  HILL  RISE 

Quite  a  new  wine.  Only  got  three  bottles.  I'll  let  you  into 
the  secret  that  it  isn't  dear.  New  fellow — has  his  name  to 
make.  Ah!  opens  all  right  anyhow." 

Short,  releasing  the  cork,  had  produced  a  most  tremendous 
bang,  which  really  frightened  Jack. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Sir  John,"  he  stammered,  "don't  say 

you've ?  Short,  bring  it  here;"  and  he  hastily  turned 

up  the  white  napkin  with  which  Short  had  swathed  the  bottle. 

"If  it's — well,  if  it  is,  you  know,  you've  just No,  it's  all 

right;  it  isn't." 

It  was  not  Eosencrantz. 

After  dinner,  when  Short  had  fetched  the  coffee  and  put 
the  cigar-boxes  by  his  master's  elbow,  Sir  John  almost  always 
spoke — without  reticence — of  his  expectations. 

"Baddish  news  from  Bournemouth,  Jack." 

"What — is  the  poor  old  lady  worse?" 

"No — she's  better;"  and  Sir  John  smiled  good-naturedly. 
"Confound  it  all — she  is  taking  her  time,  isn't  she  ?  Dr.  Lacy 
writes — marked  improvement  of  stamina — but  dead  mentally. 
Death  in  life — Lacy  calls  it." 

When  Mr.  Jack  was  going,  her  ladyship  always  came  out 
into  the  tiny  hall  to  make  sure  that  Short  was  wrapping  up 
the  guest  properly  against  the  cold  night  air. 

"Thank  you,  Short.  I  say,  Short,  old  boy,  do  you  know, 
you  are  putting  on  flesh  very  fast.  Do  you  think  you  eat  too 
much?" 

"I  don't  eat  any  more,  Mr.  John,  than  I  used  to  in  the 
old  days." 

"Ah,  but  we  all  used  to  eat  too  much  in  the  old  days." 

Then  Lady  Vincent  came  from  the  warm  little  drawing- 
room  to  make  quite  sure. 

"Good-night,  my  dearest  boy.  Kind  remembrances  to  Miss 
Crunden.  My  very  kind  remembrances,"  said  Lady  Vincent 
graciously.  "I  never  misjudged  any  one  as  I  did  her — such 
right  views  on  all  subjects." 

And  Sir  John,  following  his  lady  to  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room,  suddenly  remembered  the  Crundens,  of  whom 
he  had  said  no  word  till  now. 

"Oh,  ah,  yes,  to  be  sure.     How's  the  old  fellow?     And 


HILL  RISE  267 

how's  Miss  Crunden?  Yes,  of  course — to  be  sure.  Miss 
Crunden!"  and  Sir  John  smiled  mysteriously,  as  though  the 
name  had  brought  back  secret  and  rather  amusing  thoughts. 
"Hope  Miss  Crunden's  well.  Still  Miss  Crunden?  Not  mar- 
ried yet,  is  she?" 

"No,"  said  Jack,  "she  is  not  married.  Good-night;"  and 
he  marched  away  in  the  cold  and  the  darkness  to  his  humble 
bachelor  home. 

Nearly  all  the  shops  were  thriving;  but  not  quite  all. 
Somehow  or  other,  Robes  et  Modes,,  although  it  started  so  well, 
had  not  shared  in  the  boom.  Perhaps  its  two  promoters  had 
entered  unlucky  premises;  perhaps  they  had  attempted  im- 
possibilities; perhaps  they  had  run  full-tilt  against  the  Spirit 
of  the  Age,  and  from  the  very  first  had  been  doomed  ulti- 
mately to  fail  with  Miss  Walsh's  maxims  of  high  profit  on 
small  returns,  etc.  Anyhow,  af-fcr  the  first  six  months,  Miss 
Barter  and  Miss  Walsh  seemed  to  lose  their  grip  on  the  cus- 
tomers who  had  come  to  them  when  the  white  paint  was 
fresh  and  the  gold-tassels  unsoiled.  Letter-writing  on  thickest 
note-paper,  with  the  arms  of  half  a  dozen  foreign  potentates, 
ceased  to  produce  effect.  Invitations  to  view  latest  nou- 
veautes  and  extra  special  lines  were  ignored.  Out  of  all  the  new 
families  there  were  not  half  a  dozen  new  clients  for  the  chic 
establishment  in  Bridge  Street.  The  dome  of  Selkirk  was  seen 
by  these  strangers  from  the  railway  carriage  ere  they  alighted ; 
the  plate-glass  fagade  of  Selkirk  arrested  their  attention  as 
they  drove  from  the  station;  the  covered  carts  of  Selkirk 
flashed  his  name  before  their  eyes,  printed  it  on  their  mem- 
ories; their  first  exploration  of  the  town  was  to  find  the 
nearest  way  to  Selkirk.  They  had  been  in  Medford  for 
months  perhaps,  were  the  chained  slaves  of  Selkirk,  before 
they  turned  down  a  side  street  and  happened  to  see,  under 
an  architect's  office,  the  quaint  little  shop  that  called  itself 
Modes  et  Eobes. 

Who  was  to  blame  for  this  lack  of  success?  No  one, 
probably — unless  one  might  accuse  Destiny  or  the  Spirit  of 
the  Age.  But  Miss  Walsh  said  it  was  all  Miss  Barter's  fault, 
and  Miss  Barter  said  Miss  Walsh  had  swindled  her.  With 


268  HILL  RISE 

insufficient  business  to  occupy  their  minds,  and  without  cus- 
tomers to  soften  their  manners  and  silence  their  tongues,  the 
partners  were  continually  quarrelling.  An  acrimonious 
wrangle  filled  their  enforced  leisure  day  after  day.  Mr. 
Dowling's  clerks  could  hear  them,  and  sometimes  stamped 
upon  the  floor  to  beg  for  peace.  Then  Miss  Walsh  used  to  come 
out  into  the  passage  and  call  up  to  the  clerks  most  acrimoni- 
ously :  "If  you  shake  the  plaster  off  our  ceiling,  I'll  make  you 
pay  for  it.  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Eogers  this  minute  and  tell 
him  it's  you  and  not  us  he  must  look  to.  There's  cracks 
you've  made  already  that  are  big  enough  to  put  your  fingers 
in,"  etc.,  etc.  And  then  the  angry  senior  partner  would  return 
to  the  shop  and  pick  up  the  thread  of  the  squabble  with 
Miss  Jessie.  "Give  you  back  your  money  and  let  you  go? 
Oh,  that's  a  good  one,  that  is.  You  never  wanted  for  cheek, 
Jessie.  Give  me  back  my  money — that  you've  lost  for  me 
by  your  laziness  and  your  carelessness  and  your  underhand 
ways.  Let  me  see  my  money  again  and  we'll  begin  to  talk 
about  yours.  I  earned  my  money  I  did — scraped  and  saved 
it  by  honest  earning.  I  didn't  go  out  and  cadge  it.  ...  '' 
There  was  in  fact  much  uneasiness  and  annoyance  beneath 
Mr.  Dowling. 

And  Miss  Jessie  in  her  troubles  troubled  other  people.  Too 
often  she  brought  the  discomfort  and  worry  out  of  the  shop 
and  took  them  upstairs  to  the  first  floor.  Passing  the  open 
door  of  the  clerks'  room,  she  approached  the  closed  door  of 
Mr.  Dowling's  sanctum  and  tapped  with  her  pencil  on  the 
panels.  At  the  sound  of  these  light  pencil-tappings,  Mr. 
Dowling,  seated  in  his  big  chair  before  his  pigeon-hole  desk, 
used  to  start  guiltily.  He  knew  what  the  pencil  signal  meant : 
his  little  neighbour  craved  admittance,  and  he  was  to  tap  on 
his  desk,  once  if  she  might  come  in  or  three  times  if  he  was 
occupied  and  did  not  wish  to  see  her.  He  dreaded  such  visits ; 
he  disliked  the  notion  of  a  secret  understanding  implied  by 
pencil-signals;  he  never  wished  to  see  Miss  Barter.  But, 
whether  he  tapped  once  or  twice,  Miss  Barter  now  always 
came  in. 

"Only  me.  Well,  you  are  mean  to  pretend  you  were  busy. 
I  knew  you  were  alone." 


HILL  RISE 

And  then  Miss  Barter  began  troubling  the  architect. 

"Oh,  that  odious  woman  has  said  the  crudest  things  to 
me  to-day.  I  believe  she  goes  about  backbiting  and  slandering 
me  all  over  the  town.  It's  her  tongue  that  is  ruining  the 
business  and  putting  every  one  off.  And  if  you'll  believe  me,l 
the  way  she  goes  on  with  Mr.  Lloyd — you  know  who  I  mean — 
White  and  Burrell's  traveller.  Well,  if  I  was  to  take  a  leaf 
out  of  her  book  and  go  blackening  any  one's  character,  I 
could  tell  tales  of  Katie  Walsh  that  would  surprise  you." 

Mr.  Cowling,  listening  to  this  sort  of  thing,  deeply  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  himself  taken  the  empty  shop  when 
French  the  hatter  became  bankrupt;  or  that  a  cheesemonger, 
a  fried-fish  seller,  a  bird-and-dog  fancier  had  not  taken  it 
instead  of  a  fashionable  dressmaker. 

"Mr.  Dowling,  do  be  nice  to  me  this  afternoon.  I  am  that 
down — and  I  hoped  to  catch  you  in  the  best  and  kindest 
temper;"  and  then  perhaps  Miss  Barter  would  sit  upon  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Bowling's  big  chair,  and  be  promptly  asked  to  get 
up  therefrom. 

"Why,  there's  no  harm  in  it." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Dowling  hastily ;  "no  harm,  of  course.  But 
suppose  any  one  came  in — they  might  draw  wrong  conclu- 
sions." 

"Well,  you  are  particular." 

"One  cannot  be  too  particular.  Sit  down  over  there,  please, 
and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

It  was  the  rent  for  the  quarter  to  be  made  up.  Could 
Mr.  Dowling,  just  for  this  once,  help  his  struggling  neigh- 
bours ? 

"Fifteen  pounds  to  make  up.  To  you  who  are  so  rich, 
it  may  seem  nothing  at  all,  but  we  don't  know  where  to  get 
it — no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  Eogers  won't  show 
us  any  mercy.  Eogers  will  serve  us  the  same  as  he  did  young 
French — put  in  a  distraint  and  bundle  us  out  into  the 
street." 

Indirectly,  too,  Miss  Barter  caused  vexation  to  Mr.  Dow- 
ling. One  of  the  few  staunch  customers  of  Robes  et  Modes 
was  the  sumptuously  dressed  Mrs.  Dowling;  and  when  she 
visited  the  shop,  she  always  came  upstairs  to  the  office  to  see 


270  HILL  RISE 

her  husband.  The  most  loyal  husband  does  not  want  his 
wife  at  his  business  address,  and  Mr.  Bowling  when  conduct- 
ing a  professional  interview  was  often  flustered  and  con- 
fused by  hearing  a  well-known  heavy  footstep  on  the  stairs. 

One  day  it  chanced  that  Mrs.  Cowling,  coining  up,  met 
Miss  Barter  going  down.  Miss  Barter  explained  that  she  was 
expecting  Mrs.  Bowling,  and  she  had  run  up  to  inquire  why 
Mrs.  Bowling  had  not  called  to  try  on.  Mrs.  Bowling,  how- 
ever, required  further  explanation  from  her  husband.  Thus 
Miss  Barter  became  a  source  of  ever-increasing  trouble  to 
Mr.  Bowling. 

She  was  troublesome  also  to  Mr.  Crunden.  When  he  came 
for  a  business  talk  with  his  architect  and  adviser,  she  would 
intercept  him  sometimes  in  the  narrow  passage. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Crunden,  I  am  so  delighted  at  your  success.  One 
likes  the  persons  one  respects  to  be  great  and  famous.  You 
are  a  Croesus  now,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Crunden — owning  half  the 
town!  But  don't  forget  humble  friends,  Mr.  Crunden,  now 
that  you  are  such  a  great  man.  I  can  never  forget  you  and 
your  kindness  and  chivalry  to  poor  little  me — and  I'm  proud 
and  grateful,  Mr.  Crunden,  to  think  of  your  kindness " 

Mr.  Crunden  grunted,  and  his  answers  to  these  compliments 
were  both  short  and  surly:  he  found  Miss  Barter's  flattering 
attentions  very  troublesome. 

But  most  of  all  was  Miss  Jessie  troublesome  to  Jack  Vin- 
cent. 

"Jack,  I  came  up  to  the  cottage  three  evenings  last  week 
and  you  were  never  in.  If  you  went  out  on  purpose  to  avoid 
me,  I  think  it  very  mean  of  you.  Yes,  I  do,  Jack.  Here 
was  I  sitting  alone,  and  pining  to  go  to  the  theatre — and  no 
one  to  take  me.  And  you  did  as  good  as  promise  for  last 
week.  You  did,  Jack." 

"Well,  you  know,  Jessie,  we  are  so  busy  just  now ;  and  after 
work  I  really  am  so  tired — that  I  should  go  to  sleep  at  the 
theatre." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  about  the  theatre.  Though  you  used  to 
take  me,  Jack,  whenever  I  asked  you.  I  don't  mind  if  we 
only  go  for  a  quiet  walk." 

Jack  in  these  days  walked  by  himself  very  quietly  and 


HILL  RISE  271 

warily  when  he  knew  that  there  was  a  probability  of  meeting 
Miss  Barter.  At  the  sight  of  her  largely  picturesque  hat  and 
severely  trim  waist,  he  had  more  than  once  dodged  round  a 
corner  and  run  a  little  way  in  true  greyhound  fashion.  Miss 
Barter  was  the  lady  who  had  complimented  him  on  looking 
like  a  greyhound. 

"And  with  the  thinness,,  Jack,  you've  grown  so  handsome — 
so  thoroughbred,  too." 

Miss  Jessie  was  always  lavish  of  compliments,  but  Jack  now 
extracted  from  her  soft  words  no  more  gratification  than  had 
Mr.  Crunden.  He,  with  Mr.  Crunden  and  Mr.  Bowling, 
found  her  most  troublesome. 

The  fact  was  that,  so  far  as  Jack  was  concerned,  Jessie 
was  necessarily  troublesome.  Jack  had  a  place — a  large 
place — in  her  future  plans.  It  seemed  to  Jessie  obvious 
that  although  Jack  might  still  look  an  aristocrat,  he  had  cer- 
tainly ceased  to  be  one:  the  Medford  upheaval  had  swept 
away  all  those  social  barriers  which  once  had  separated  them ; 
socially  they  stood  now  side  by  side  on  the  same  level;  and 
no  one  could  think  it  strange  if  they  linked  hands  and  walked 
on  side  by  side  forever.  So  it  seemed  to  Jessie.  Her  only 
doubt  was,  Would  such  a  lifelong  union  be  the  best  thing 
for  her?  She  was  quite  sure  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for 
Jack — although  he  might  not  at  first  believe  this;  she  was 
fond  of  Jack  and  wished  him  well ;  finally,  after  careful  con- 
sideration extending  over  two  or  three  years,  she  made  up 
her  mind  as  to  the  future  of  Jack  and  herself.  Henceforth, 
in  all  that  she  said,  she  was  trying  to  bring  Jack  round  to 
her  way  of  thinking:  to  entangle  him  in  such  a  thought- 
maze  that  he  should  eventually  think -that  what  she  wished 
him  to  think  was  what  he  himself  had  thought  originally. 

She  used  to  speak  with  emotion  of  the  dear  old  past  when 
they  were  first  drawn  to  one  another — omitting,  of  course,  all 
reference  to  the  drawing  power  of  such  ugly  magnets  as 
the  White  Hart  bar  and  its  high  stools,  etc. 

"Those  were  the  happy  times,  Jack — when  we  had  noth- 
ing to  worry  us.  And  why  shouldn't  such  times  come  again  ?" 

"Oh,"  said  Jack  cheerfully,  "the  times  aren't  bad  now,  as 
times  go." 


272  HILL  RISE 

"I  knew  you  liked  me,"  said  Jessie,  with  much  feeling, 
"almost  directly.  More  by  your  eyes  than  by  what  you  said. 
I  believe  a  girl  can  tell  a  good  deal  better  by  a  man's  eyes 
than  his  lips.  And  then  I  tested  you,  Jack,  didn't  I?  And 
you  came  forward  so  nobly — proving  it  by  giving  me  all 
that  capital " 

"Oh,  don't  go  back  to  that,  Jessie.  You  were  quite  wel- 
come to  it.  I  only  wish  you  had  done  better  with  your 
business." 

"If  it  had  been  the  success  I  hoped,  you  should  have  had 
your  share,  Jack.  Yes,  you  should.  I'd  have  paid  you  good 
percentage  out  of  all  profits.  But  that  odious  woman  has 
swindled  me — yes,  robbed  me  of  all  you  trusted  to  me." 

"All  right,  Jessie;  if  the  money  is  gone,  it  isn't  worth 
talking  about,  and  I'm  sorry  I  can't  offer  you  any  more." 

It  became  apparent  to  Jessie,  after  many  conversations, 
that  little  was  to  be  done  with  Jack  by  appeals  to  sentiment 
rather  than  to  reason.  His  thoughts  had  become  so  prosaic 
that  the  poetry  of  life  could  not  entangle  them:  instead  of 
turning  and  twisting  bewildered  in  her  maze,  they  broke  fence 
and  got  out  the  nearest  way. 

Finally,  therefore,  she  talked  to  Mr.  Vincent  in  a  thor- 
oughly practical  and  businesslike  manner. 

"Jack,  I'm  sick  to  death  of  Medford.  I'm  not  doing  any 
good  here — and  the  longer  I  stay  I  do  believe  the  worse  it 
will  be." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Jessie." 

"And  I  can't  see  that  you  are  doing  any  good  either.  What's 
the  use  of  slaving  for  a  stingy  old  hedgehog,  like  Mr.  Crun- 
den?  He's  imposing  on  you  all  the  time.  He'll  work  you 
till  you  drop,  without  ever  giving  you  your  fair  share.  No 
matter  how  rich  he  grows,  he  won't  give  you  a  percentage  out 
of  his  riches.  Why  shouldn't  you  and  I  just  up  stick  together 
and  go  to  London?" 

"To  London?"  said  Jack  blankly.  This  was  at  the  very 
time  when  he  himself  was  considering  if  it  would  not  be  well 
for  him  to  go  to  London  and  there  seek  work;  he  was  stag- 
gered by  the  proposal  that  he  should  take  a  companion  with 
him. 


HILL  RISE  273 

"We  could  be  married  before  the  registrar.  No  larks,  Jack. 
I'm  not  going  without  the  ring." 

Mr.  Vincent  was  greatly  embarrassed.  It  was  an  occasion 
on  which  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  say  No  courteously, 
yet  firmly,  and  without  giving  offence.  With  apologetic  mur- 
murs, vague  gestures,  and  stammering  expressions  of  re- 
gret, Mr.  Vincent  explained  that  Jessie's  slowly  matured 
decision  must  be  reversed.  Her  plan  for  his  future  welfare 
was  impossible. 

"Why  not?  I  can  get  my  two  pound  a  week  in  London — 
and  later  on  I  can  try  a  shop  there.  Meantime,  you'll  be 
earning  money — more  money  than  you'll  get  here.  I  believe 
I  could  do  grand  in  a  London  shop  of  my  own — without  any 
odious  woman  to  interfere  with  me.  And  I  can  trust  you  for 
a  worker — not  one  who'd  let  your  wife  slave  for  you  while 
you  went  about  idle.  Do  let's  do  it.  And  if  ever  we  make 
our  fortune — you  being  a  gentleman  can  put  me  into  society 
and  we  can  forget  the  shop,  and  swagger  with  the  best  of 
them." 

It  was  painfully  difficult  to  thank  Jessie  for  her  confi- 
dence while  refusing  to  take  advantage  of  it.  She  would  be- 
lieve that  a  polite  No  really  meant  a  bashful  Yes.  When 
she  reopened  the  matter,  Jack  had  the  letter  from  Messrs. 
Griggs  concealed  about  his  person,  and  he  felt  that  her  bright, 
cold  eyes  would  penetrate  to  his  inner  breast  pocket  and 
read  the  secret.  He  felt  that  if  she  knew  how  Griggs  were 
now  offering  him  four  pounds  a  week,  she  would  drag  him  by 
his  coattails  to  the  "registrar." 

The  last  discussion  of  this  delicate  matter  occurred  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon  in  midwinter.  And  this  was  the  day 
when  Lizzie  Crunden,  returning  from  her  thoughtful  tramp, 
came  upon  them  after  dark  ia  Hill  Rise.  Jessie  had  demanded 
an  interview,  claimed  her  right  to  lengthy  debate  and  a  full 
exposition  of  Jack's  arguments — which  still  appeared  to  her 
inconclusive.  "You  do  owe  me  that,  at  least,  Jack — to  tell  me 
the  reason  why."  It  was  a  most  distressing  walk  and  talk. 
They  were  walking  and  talking  still  when  dusk  fell;  they 
had  stopped  walking  but  were  still  talking  in  the  lamplight 
when  Lizzie,  unobserved,  flitted  past  in  the  shadows. 


274  HILL  RISE 

"Then  I  think/'  Miss  Barter  was  saying,  "you've  treated 
me  very  cruel — yes,  and  very  mean,  too." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Jessie." 

"But  I  do  say  it.  If  you  never  meant  anything  serious  in 
the  end,  you  shouldn't  have  led  me  on,  step  by  step, — making 
me  fond  of  you.  It's  a  mean  thing  to  do  to  any  girl.  And 
it  isn't  fair  either.  You've  spoilt  my  chances.  Charlie  Pad- 
field  would  have  come  forward  at  one  time  if  I'd  lifted  my 
finger  to  beckon  him.  Of  course,  other  men  wouldn't  come 
forward  while  they  saw  you  about  with  me — and  now  my  best 
years  are  gone.  I  shall  be  passy — like  that  odious  woman — 
before  I  can  look  round." 

"Jessie,  I'm  awfully  sorry.  Eeally,  I've  always  tried  to 
be  a  good  pal  to  you.  I  wouldn't  have  stood  in  your  light 
for  worlds." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  it  means,"  said  Jessie  bitterly.  "I'm 
not  good  enough.  You're  out  heiress-hunting.  You've 
thought  of  a  better  way  of  getting  old  Crunden's  money  than 
by  any  percentages.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  I  can't  see 
the  meaning  of  it.  It's  that  Crunden  girl  has  come  between 
you  and  me,  Jack." 

"Jessie,  I've  been  a  good  pal  to  you.    Don't  turn  nasty." 

"Yes,  and  haven't  you  turned  nasty  to  me?  If  I'm  nasty, 
I've  a  right  to  be — and  show  it,  too." 

That  was  Jack's  last  promenade  with  Miss  Barter.  When 
it  was  over,  he  felt  clear  in  conscience  and  yet  pricked  by 
remorse.  He  was  innocent.  There  was  nothing  in  the  indict- 
ment; the  charge  should  never  have  been  preferred;  and  yet, 
somehow,  he  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  he  could  not  blame 
his  accuser  for  having  brought  him  into  the  dock. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

THE  tide  was  turning. 

Mr.  Crunden  was  in  danger  of  losing  the  old  prefix  to  his 
name.  Perhaps  for  six  months  no  one  but  Miss  Barter  had 
called  him  Hedgehog.  One  day  walking  thoughtfully,  he 
stopped  short,  turned,  and  looked  back  at  three  men  stand- 
ing by  the  corner  of  a  street.  As  he  passed,  they  had  done 
something  very  unusual :  each  of  the  three  had  touched  his 
hat.  Preoccupied  by  his  thoughts,  Mr.  Crunden  had,  never- 
theless, noticed  the  unexpected  action  of  the  three  hands,  and 
now  he  stared  in  reflective  surprise.  He  did  not  even  know 
the  men ;  they  had  never  been  in  his  employ ;  they  were  merely 
saluting  a  famous  citizen.  Then,  day  after  day,  he  observed 
that  this  new  custom  was  spreading — was  becoming  universal. 
One  copied  another;  the  policeman  saw  the  omnibus-driver 
raise  his  whip  before  his  forehead,  and,  automatically  imi- 
tating, brought  his  gloved  hand  to  the  peak  of  his  helmet; 
gradually  all  the  humble  world  touched  hats  to  Mr.  Crunden. 

People  who  stood  above  the  hat-touching  level — solid  citi- 
zens like  Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Eogers, — began  to  cross  the 
road  and  accost  him.  People  to  whom  he  had  not  spoken  for 
years  insisted  on  speaking  now — addressed  him  easily  and 
jovially,  as  though  they  were  resuming  a  conversation  inter- 
rupted by  accident  yesterday.  No  reference  was  made  by 
townsmen  to  the  mud-throwing  past;  no  apologies  were 
offered  for  the  old  obloquy  and  abuse;  but,  if  Mr.  Crunden 
studied  the  demeanour  of  the  town,  he  must  judge  by  very 
many  signs  that  Medford  wished  to  show  him,  as  prophesied 
by  Councillor  Hope,  the  change  wrought  by  the  years  in 
public  opinion. 

Mr.  Hopkins,  one  morning  hurrying  from  the  opposite 
pavement,  offering  an  open  hand,  gave  him  explicit  assurance 

275 


276  HILL  RISE 

of  the  sentiments  which  Medford  by  these  long-delayed  civili- 
ties now  desired  to  convey  to  him. 

"An  immense  amount  of  'umbug  has  been  talked,"  said 
Mr.  Hopkins,  "and  many  of  us  were  led  astray.  But  we  can 
see  clear  now." 

"Can  you?" 

"And  the  wish  of  a$,  Mr.  Crunden,  is  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  We  Avere  talking  of  you  after  the  Council  meeting, 
on  Monday  night.  A  full  meeting — a  representative  meet- 
ing— and  after  it  was  done,  we  spoke  free  among  ourselves, 
without  'umbug.  The  old  feeling  has  gone,  Mr.  Crunden. 
We  do  not  begrudge  you  your  wealth  nor  your  success,  Mr. 
Crunden.  We  see  now  that,  in  helping  yourself,  you  have 
helped  others.  .  .  .  That,"  said  Mr.  Hopkins,  "is  what  I 
felt  I  should  like  to  make  myself  the  mouthpiece  to  saj — 
and  to  shake  you  by  the  hand,  Mr.  Crunden." 

The  tide  had  turned — was  flowing  fast  the  other  way.  It 
almost  seemed  as  though,  if  nothing  checked  the  flood,  old 
Crunden  would  soon  be  absolutely  popular. 

He  had  been  described  in  the  Advertiser  as  a  Pioneer  of 
Progress  and  a  Resolute  Foe  to  Torpor  and  Stagnation.  Suc- 
cessive on-dits  in  Mees's  Bulletin  contained  quotations  from 
Jack's  pamphlet  lavishly  praising  the  beauties  of  the  Hill 
Rise  Estate.  When  newspapers  begin  to  give  one  free  adver- 
tisements, one  may  safely  accept  them  as  echoes  of  the  public 
voice  itself. 

As  the  springtime  brought  life  to  the  sleeping  woods,  as 
the  sunlight  sparkled  and  flashed  again  on  Selkirk's  dome, 
and  Valentine's  Day  came  round  once  more  to  set  the  shy 
birds  building,  Mr.  Hope,  well-advanced  in  his  series  of 
articles,  was  doing  Mr.  Crunden  rather  more  than  justice. 
Mr.  Hope's  pen  had  a  trick  of  running  away  with  him.  When 
it  had  started  to  eulogise,  it  plunged  on,  and  was  now  career- 
ing wildly.  If  one  might  believe  all  that  was  said  in  these 
later  instalments  of  Mr.  Hope's  series,  thanks  were  due  to  Mr. 
Crunden  for  all  good  things  in  and  about  Medford — the 
increasing  warmth  of  the  sun,  the  violets  on  the  moss-carpet 
beneath  the  beeches,  the  song  of  the  birds,  the  rising  of  the 


HILL  RISE  277 

sap,  the  quickening  and  gladdening  of  the  human  heart  after 
the  dull,  dark  winter. 

But  while  Mr.  Hope  sang  this  vernal  paean,  while  the  earth 
was  coming  to  life  and  on  all  sides  one  could  see  and  hear 
movement,  activity,  progress,  there  was  an  ominous  restful 
silence  over  the  Hill  Eise  land.  No  shy  birds  were  building 
there;  the  tender  young  grass  was  tinting  unused  roads; 
violets  had  wandered  from  the  woods  and  bashfully,  stupidly, 
planted  themselves  by  the  side  of  granite  kerbstones,  to  tell 
one  that  no  footsteps  as  yet  passed  along  the  new  pathways. 
On  all  the  land,  when  St.  Valentine's  feast  slipped  by  in  the 
calendar,  no  builder  this  year  was  busy — except  Mr.  Crun- 
den,  slowly,  desperately  slowly,  finishing  the  last  of  his  decoy- 
houses. 

On  February  afternoons  visitors  several  times  stood  wait- 
ing at  the  door  of  ceremony  at  King's  Cottage.  The  spirit 
that  impelled  Mr.  Hopkins  and  such  prominent  town-fathers 
from  one  pavement  to  another  at  sight  of  Crunden,  now 
brought  the  Vicar  of  St.  Barnabas  and  his  lady  to  call  upon 
Miss  Crunden.  Dr.  Blake,  whose  visits  in  the  past  had  been 
of  a  professional  character  solely,  now  called  without  being 
sent  for,  and  left  not  only  his  own  card  but  the  card  of  Mrs. 
Blake.  Miss  Irene  Hope  did  not  call — although  her  papa  had 
promised  that  she  would  do  Lizzie  this  honour; — but  she 
wrote  somewhat  incoherently,  to  explain  that  she  still  in- 
tended to  call.  Miss  Hope  was  full  of  engagements — dread- 
fully rushed  just  now — too  uncertain  in  her  plans  to  name 
a  specific  date  for  the  call:  Lizzie  must,  therefore,  excuse 
delay  and  not  attribute  Miss  Hope's  absence  to  wilful  neglect. 
"Life  is  a  riddle  to  all  of  us,"  said  Miss  Hope  incoherently. 
"The  intention  has  always  seemed  to  me  everything,  if  one 
means  well  in  what  one  does  no  one  should  blame  one  what- 
ever one  does." 

As  Lizzie  had  never  asked  Irene  to  call,  she  more  than  for- 
gave her  for  not  calling;  but  she  thought  Irene's  letter,  with 
its  life-riddles  and  general  incoherence,  a  most  ridiculous, 
affected  composition. 

Among  February  visitors  was  Lady  Vincent.  Her  lady- 
ship, calling,  drank  tea  one  afternoon  in  the  parlour.  Mrs. 


278  HILL  RISE 

Price  and  Jane  hastily  produced  the  best  china,  the  choicest 
napery,  and  the  silver  teapot,  etc.,  from  the  cupboards  where 
ordinarily  these  treasures  lay  hidden ;  and  then  served  the  un- 
usually ceremonious  repast.  Her  ladyship  beamed  upon  her 
son,  had  absent-minded  and  yet  friendly  smiles  for  Lizzie,  and 
spoke  most  graciously  to  Mr.  Crunden. 

'  Old  Crunden,  perceptibly  gratified  and  yet  secretly  op- 
pressed by  so  much  unsolicited  affability  and  condescension, 
drank  his  tea  with  a  gulp,  refused  all  food,  modestly  with- 
drew from  the  table  to  the  hearth,  and  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance told  the  visitor  all  about  the  age  of  the  house. 

"Mr.  Dowling  and  I  both  put  that  woodwork  in  the  hall 
at  Charles  Two  or  James  Two — and  what  is  more,  I  believe 
the  panelling  was  removed  bodily  out  of  a  church.  If  you 
ask  me  what  church,  my  lady,  I  say  the  same  church  that  is 
indicated  by  a  cross  on  the  ancient  maps  of  Medford,  close 
by  where  St.  Barnabas  now  stands." 

The  visitor,  at  first  listening  attentively,  soon  permitted 
her  mind  to  wander  from  this  historical  information,  and 
presently  overwhelmed  Mr.  Crunden  by  the  steadily  reflective 
and  yet  unconscious  scrutiny  that  had  always  produced  nerv- 
ousness in  those  who  were  not  familiar  friends  of  her  lady- 
ship. 

"A  very  old  house,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  abruptly  conclud- 
ing, and  rubbing  his  hands  together  nervously. 

"We  are  all  of  us  growing  older,"  said  Lady  Vincent.  "My 
husband,  Mr.  Crunden,  no  longer  deplores  all  the  changes  in 
the  town.  He  has  no  unkind  memory  of  your  opposition  to 
his  wishes — and  I  hope  you,  Mr.  Crunden,  think  more  kindly 
of  us,  now  that  you  have  had  your  own  way — in  everything." 

"I  would  like  to  say" — and  Mr.  Crunden  cleared  his  throat 
and  coughed — "I  have  a  very  sincere  respect  for  Sir  John — 
and  his  family.  Any  words  of  mine  on  the  subject  of  Hill 
Rise,  which  might  seem  disrespectful  to  Sir  John,  were  spoken 
foolishly — and  regretted  ever  afterwards." 

"Oh,"  said  Jack,  "that's  all  right.    Sir  John  understood." 
•   "Quite  so,"  said  Lady  Vincent  graciously;  "but  it  is  kind 
of  Mr.  Crunden  to  tell  us  that  he  was  not  really  hostile  to 
your  father.  .  .  .    My  husband,"  and  she  turned  to  Mr.  Crun- 


HILL  RISE  279 

den  very  graciously,  "is  in  great  anxiety  just  now;"  and  she 
turned  again  to  her  son.  "Jack  dear,  we  have  grave  news 
from  Bournemouth." 

"What — is  the  old  lady  better  again?" 

"No;  worse.  Poor  dear,  she  has  caused  Dr.  Lacy  serious 
alarm  in  the  last  few  days.  ...  It  is  sad,  Mr.  Crunden,  to 
be  given  length  of  years  but  to  be  deprived  of  the  power  of 
enjoying  life.  That  is  unhappily  the  case  with  our  poor  old 
cousin — Miss  Vincent — at  Bournemouth." 

The  tide  was  flowing  strong. 

"Fine  morning,  sir;"  "Good-day,  Mr.  Crunden";  "I  hope 
I  see  you  well,  sir" ; — Mr.  Crunden  was  walking  through  High 
Street,  and  all  the  world  was  greeting  him.  Tradesmen  on 
the  thresholds  of  their  shops  tarried  to  salute  him,  would  not 
let  him  pass  without  compliments  and  bows.  They  all  thought 
him  rich  and  prosperous,  and  they  bowed  to  the  success  and 
the  power  that,  after  all,  had  done  them  no  injury. 

The  sun  shone;  wherever  he  glanced  smiles  seemed  to  wel- 
come him;  but  he  could  take  no  pleasure  in  the  sunlight  or 
the  friendly  faces.  He  walked  as  a  man  dreaming,  a  man 
haunted  by  doubt  and  disaster.  When  he  looked  at  his 
untrodden  roads,  at  his  untenanted  houses,  at  the  wide  empty 
spaces  on  his  land,  it  appeared  to  him  incredible  that  all 
the  stupid  world  did  not  read  his  secret  and  recognise  his 
defeat.  The  ugly  truth  stared  at  them — surely  they  could 
see  for  themselves.  He  was  beaten  and  they  hailed  him  as 
victorious. 

He  suffered  now,  almost  without  respite.  Awake  or  asleep 
he  could  not  shake  off  the  intolerable  sense  of  failure.  He 
was  a  man  living  in  a  dream — a  horrible  nightmare  com- 
posed of  solid  facts,  not  of  wild  fancies.  The  dead  weight 
of  his  forty  acres  was  full  upon  him  each  night  as  he  lay 
down  to  rest,  was  crushing  him  as  he  rose,  was  carried  by  him 
throughout  the  daylight  hours. 

It  tortured  him  to  think  of  the  past — of  his  garnered  hoard, 
of  the  slowly  amassed  fortune  that  used  to  give  him  strength 
and  pride  and  courage.  He  had  considered  himself  rich,  had 
been  staggered  by  his  own  success:  as  a  young  man,  he  had 


280  HILL  RISE 

never  ventured  to  hope  that  he  would  one  day  have  put  by 
twenty-seven  thousand  pounds.  It  was  nothing,  perhaps, 
if  you  measured  the  fortune  by  London  standards,  but  for  a 
small  provincial  town  such  as  Medford,  for  a  builder's  for- 
tune, it  was  a  grand  achievement.  And  now,  blindly,  wilfully, 
in  vainglorious  folly,  he  had  jeopardized  it,  involved  it,  turned 
it  from  sound-ringing  gold  to  brain-disturbing  figures  on 
sheets  of  ruled  paper.  His  heart  used  to  warm  with  the 
thought  that  his  daughter  was  a  rich  heiress :  now  he  could 
only  leave  her  a  statement  of  affairs  such  as  a  bankrupt  gets 
ready  for  the  eyes  of  his  creditors. 

Often  he  thought  of  what  he  had  said  to  Jack  Vincent 
about  Sir  John  and  financial  operations.  "You  see,  sir,  a 
gentleman  like  your  father  soon  gets  adrift  in  financial  opera- 
tions. It's  a  special  business  training  straight  up  from  the 
bottom."  Speaking  thus  kindly  and  consequentially,  he  had 
felt  so  sure  of  himself,  so  strong  in  his  knowledge  of  all  the 
conditions  of  his  enterprise.  And  yet — as  he  thought  now 
with  bitter  self-contempt — if  he  had  been  some  fortieth 
baronet,  some  pampered  duke  fresh  from  Eton  and  Oxford, 
with  no  other  learning  than  a  little  Latin  and  Greek,  he  could 
not  have  muddled  things  more  completely.  All  his  life's  work 
had  gone  to  water;  all  his  painfully  acquired  experience  had 
been  futile;  boastfully,  bumptiously,  contemptibly,  he  had 
blundered  headlong  to  ruin. 

He  had  succeeded  in  small  things:  he  must,  therefore, 
succeed  in  big.  There  was  the  ruinous  fallacy  in  all  his 
laborious  reasoning.  It  was  as  if  a  man  should  say  after 
jumping  over  some  ditches :  See,  how  simple !  With  a  run  of 
eighteen  feet  I  can  jump  nine  feet  clear.  Therefore,  if  I 
take  a  proportionately  longer  run,  I  can  jump  over  the  widest 
river.  But  there  is  a  fatal  error  in  arguing  thus  from  little 
to  large.  Hill  Eise  had  been  a  fatally  larger  leap  than  any- 
thing he  had  ever  attempted  before. 

He  could  understand  now.  In  the  past  when  successfully 
developing  one  of  his  many-cornered  little  fields,  he  had  given 
perhaps  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  an  acre  and  a 
half.  He  was  then  the  big  capitalist — with  loads  of  money 
for  the  small  task,  obtaining  big  trade  discounts,  setting  his 


HILL  RISE  281 

men  upon  the  work  when  they  might  otherwise  have  been 
idle,  taking  them  off  when  he  wanted  them  for  some  remuner- 
ative contract ; — he  had  been  master  and  lord,  of  money,  time, 
everything;  controlling  the  enterprise,  not  being  driven  by  it. 
Now,  with  his  vast  effort,  all  the  conditions  had  been  reversed. 

He  thought  of  old  Selby — a  raven  croaking  in  his  path 
when  he  was  still  high  in  baseless  hope.  "I  had  my  money 
out  of  bricks  and  mortar  once,  but  I  was  fool  enough  to  put 
it  back  again."  And  again :  "A  big  task  ye've  got.  A  mighty 
big  task."  All  the  elemental  truth  was  summed  up  in  old 
Selby's  words.  Easy  if  you  are  working  well  within  the  scope 
of  your  own  means,  but  cruel  hard  if  you're  using  borrowed 
capital.  And  to  enforce  the  bitter  lesson,  here  were  the 
London  and  Suburban  Company  triumphing  at  Hill  House 
because  they  had  unlimited  funds  behind  them.  With  a  quar- 
ter as  much  land  and  a  hundred  times  as  much  money,  those 
dreaded  neighbours  had  gloriously  succeeded  while  Crunden 
was  most  dismally  failing. 

From  the  very  first  he  had  failed;  everything  had  gone 
wrong;  if  you  considered  the  estate  as  a  whole  or  divided  the 
work  into  separate  jobs  and  considered  each  part  in  detail, 
failure  plainly  disclosed  itself.  During  the  last  months  Jack 
Vincent  and  he  had  been  toiling  as  accountants  to  set  out 
the  final  cost  of  all  that  had  been  done;  and  the  figures, 
however  you  tested  them,  told  the  same  story.  Thus,  the 
thirty-six  feet  roads  which  should  have  cost  thirty  shillings 
per  foot  run,  had  in  fact  cost  two  pounds  per  foot  when 
finished;  the  first  cottages  had  cost  £190  instead  of  £180 
apiece;  the  second  lot  of  cottages,  taken  over  from  the  man 
of  straw,  stood  at  £215  apiece;  each  of  the  decoy-houses 
should  have  been  finished  for  £1,500,  and  the  cheapest  had 
run  away  with  £1,700.  You  could  account  for  the  increase 
of  cost  over  estimate  easily  enough :  this  was  the  difference  in 
result  between  taking  discounts  and  paying  for  credit;  be- 
tween working  at  leisure  and  working  as  if  driven  by  demons. 
But  the  difference  meant  a  loss  instead  of  a  profit  on  all  the 
building  so  far  done — except  his  first  cottages. 

Suppose  that  one  were  forced  to  stop  now  and  present  one's 
financial  statement!  Twenty-two  thousand  pounds  sunk  in 


282  HILL  RISE 

the  purchase,  seven  thousand  sunk  in  roads,  over  ten  thousand 
absorbed  by  cottages,  eight  thousand  five  hundred  locked  up 
in  the  houses,  sixteen  thousand  still  owing  to  the  bank.  All 
that  he  had  realised  by  sale  of  the  balance  of  his  old  invest- 
ments by  sale  of  freehold  and  leasehold  plots  and  of  one 
decoy-house,  by  mortgage  and  by  rents,  etc.,  had  gone  to  reduce 
the  bank  debt  and  pay  interest,  or  on  the  land,  or  into  the 
pockets  of  Mr.  Bowling  and  Mr.  Eaton.  The  charges  of 
those  two  experts  were  very  moderate  and  yet  they  made  a 
handsome  total.  Suppose  that,  stopping  now,  one  sold  all 
the  new  buildings  and  the  covered  ground  for  what  they  would 
fetch,  there  would  be  a  loss  to  face:  sold  in  a  hurry  they 
would  never  bring  cost  price.  And  yet  it  might  be  wise 
to  swallow  such  a  loss.  Then  one's  assets  would  consist  of 
the  twenty  untenanted  derelict  houses  of  Hill  Eise  and  the 
bulk  of  the  land  and  the  roads — with  a  charge  upon  them  of 
sixteen  thousand  pounds.  Noble  assets  still — if  one  were  given 
indefinite  time  to  deal  with  them. 

He  could  not  stop ;  he  must  go  on. 

One  morning  as  he  sat  talking  in  the  parlour  of  the  United 
Bank,  the  manager  said  something  that  made  the  blood  rise 
to  his  forehead,  made  him  spring  up  indignantly  and  strike 
the  manager's  table  with  his  clenched  fist. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Crunden,  sit  down.  I  am  telling  you  what 
my  directors  say — I  am  only  a  servant,  not  the  master,  you 
know." 

They  had  been  discussing  those  noble  assets,  and  Crunden 
had  been  pleading  for  more  lenient  and  considerate  treat- 
ment than  of  late  he  had  enjoyed.  The  bank  people 
were  always  reviewing  their  situation,  and  had  issued  many 
ultimatums:  they  declined  to  consent  to  any  more  sales  of 
plots  because  they  could  not  suffer  any  further  encroachment 
on  their  security;  they  made  endless  difficulties  about  mort- 
gages, even  when  the  money  obtained  went  direct  into  their 
own  coffers ;  and  now  they  declared  that  £15,000  was  the  out- 
side limit  of  loan  that  could  be  countenanced.  Then  Crun- 
den had  urged  the  profit  which  they  had  already  reaped,  and 
the  largeness  of  their  security. 

"My  directors  regard  Hill  Kise  itself  as  a  dead  letter." 


HILL  RISE  283 

"Very  good.    But  the  land — my  own  houses!" 

"Frankly,  Mr.  Crunden,  we  now  value  the  entire  security — 
if  you  threw  the  whole  thing  on  our  hands — at  eighteen 
thousand  five  hundred — not  a  penny  more." 

And  then  Crunden  sprang  up  from  his  chair  and  banged 
the  table  in  his  indignation. 

But  that  day,  walking  from  the  bank,  with  face  still 
flushed  and  hands  that  shook  in  his  jacket  pockets,  he  felt 
sick  and  faint  as  the  thought  came  to  him  that  his  anger 
had  been  childish  and  unwarranted.  The  bank  directors  were 
right — if  he  were  compelled  to  stop  now.  He  could  not  stop : 
he  must  go  on.  This  was  what  he  had  done  with  all  his 
work — sleepless  nights,  feverish  dreams,  long  days  of  toil, 
care,  hope,  strife,  and  spite.  This  was  the  stage  he  had 
attained  in  his  grandiose  scheme:  he  had  rendered  the  Hill 
Eise  houses  useless,  proved  that  there  was  no  more  demand  for 
building  land — knocked  half  the  value  off  his  purchase.  If 
sold  to-morrow,  the  Hill  Eise  Estate  would  fetch  half  what 
he  gave  for  it. 


CHAPTEK  XXIII 

IT  was  nearly  noon  on  a  beautiful  morning  towards  the  end 
of  April,  and  Jack  was  inspecting  the  work  at  the  last  of 
the  decoy-houses.  A  week  ago  Crunden  had  slipped  in 
stepping  off  a  ladder  and  had  wrenched  the  muscles  of  one 
leg.  Since  then  he  had  been  confined  to  King's  Cottage, 
nursing  the  injured  leg  under  the  directions  of  Dr.  Blake ;  and 
Jack,  as  deputy,  had  been  in  charge  of  yard,  estate,  every- 
thing. 

This  upper  decoy-house  would  be  really  finished  soon:  the 
first  floor  was  practically  completed  and  a  painter  was  giv- 
ing last  touches;  grates  were  being  set  on  the  basement 
floor;  two  plasterers  were  doing  something  in  the  kitchen; 
carpenters  were  busy  outside  the  house  on  gates  and  fences. 
There  were  in  all  eight  men  on  the  job;  and  the  foreman 
showed  Jack  how  little  remained  now  to  do. 

"Those  Yank  doors,"  said  the  foreman,  pointing  to  an 
empty  doorway,  "are  more  trouble  than  they're  worth.  We 
could  make  them  in  our  own  shop  in  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  fit  them.  I've  sent  two  back  to  the  yard  again — can't  get 
them  to  hang  and  swing  like  they  should." 

Then  the  foreman  left  Jack  as  deputy  foreman,  and  went 
off  to  the  joiners'  shop  at  the  yard. 

"If  you  don't  mind  staying  till  twelve,  sir.  It  only  wants 
a  quarter  to.  Here's  my  whistle — if  you'll  kindly  blow  up 
at  twelve  sharp." 

Jack  took  the  foreman's  whistle,  promised  to  give  the 
signal  at  high  noon  for  the  men  to  knock  off  work ;  and  then, 
sitting  on  a  pile  of  fence  boards  outside  the  house,  waited 
patiently. 

It  was  warm  in  the  bright  sunlight,  and  the  gentle  breeze 
was  sweet  and  fresh;  the  gaiety  of  spring  was  in  the  air:  all 
the  landscape  looked  as  new  and  clean  as  the  decoy-house 

284 


HILL  RISE  285 

itself.  From  the  open  windows  came  the  cheerful  voices 
of  the  men,  the  tapping  of  the  carpenter's  hammer,  the 
swishing  sound  of  the  plasterer's  brush;  and  high  over  head 
there  was  a  chatter  of  birds  on  the  wing.  Presently,  when  he 
looked  up,  he  saw  that  the  birds  were  swallows.  These  spring 
visitors  had  returned  then.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
seen  them  this  year,  and  for  a  little  while  he  watched  them 
clinging  to  the  newly  painted  cornice,  clustering  on  the 
glittering  new  tiles,  circling  round  the  unsmoked  chimney- 
pots, crying  to  one  another  in  surprise  and  delight  as  though 
Mr.  Crunden's  house  had  been  built  for  them,  and  they  had 
just  arrived  to  take  possession  of  it.  Then,  patiently  waiting 
for  noon,  Jack  watched  a  far-off  solitary  figure  crossing  the 
grass  by  the  new  road.  It  was  a  child  or  a  woman  coming  up 
the  slope.  It  was  a  young  woman  in  a  straw  hat.  His  eyes 
brightened  as  he  recognised  her :  it  was  Lizzie  Crunden,  com- 
ing to  seek  him,  no  doubt  bearing  some  message  from  her 
father. 

Lizzie  had  not  been  sent :  she  had  come  of  her  own  accord. 
She  wanted  Jack  at  the  cottage,  to  cheer  up  father.  Mr. 
Crunden,  she  said,  was  dreadfully  depressed,  and  rather  fret- 
ful. He  had  been  upset  by  some  letter;  he  wanted  to  be 
out  and  about,  and  it  was  difficult  to  prevent  him  from  dis- 
obeying Dr.  Blake's  orders;  she  thought  Jack  might  be  able 
to  calm  him  and  to  cheer  him.  Jack  talked  to  her  first  of  Mr. 
Crunden,  then  of  the  swallows,  then  of  the  glorious  spring 
day  and,  talking,  forgot  to  blow  up. 

"I  say,  Guv'nor.  .  .  .  Mister  Vincent — please."  A  car- 
penter was  looking  out  of  a  window;  a  plasterer,  brush  in 
hand,  was  on  the  threshold;  the  two  men  at  the  fence  were 
watching  him  anxiously.  "I  say,  Guv'nor,  ain't  it  dinner 
time — time  to  knock  off?" 

Hastily  Jack  pulled  out  his  watch,  lifted  his  whistle,  and 
blew  up.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  shrill  blast,  the  tools 
dropped  from  the  workmen's  hands  as  if  by  magic,  or  as  if 
the  whistle  had  blown  the  plasterer's  brush  against  the  skirting 
board  in  the  hall  and  the  carpenter's  hammer  into  the  corner 
of  the  room  upstairs ;  men  who  were  supporting  a  grate  let  the 
iron  frame  fall  with  a  dull  crash;  no  man  continued  working 


286  HILL  RISE 

for  an  instant,  for  a  fraction  of  an  instant,  after  the  signal 
told  him  that  the  hour  of  rest  had  begun. 

"Thaf  s  their  way/'  said  Jack.  "They  work — but  they're 
not  like  your  father  and  me:  they  don't  enjoy  working;" 
and  he  called  to  the  two  men  hurrying  from  the  fence:  "I 
docked  you  of  four  minutes.  Take  it  at  the  other  end." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  thought  you  was  giving  us  short 
measure." 

Jack  walked  back  with  Lizzie,  and  spoke  to  her  again  of 
the  gaiety  and  gladness  of  these  bright  spring  days. 

"Make  you  feel  happy,  no  matter  what  you  may  have  to  wor- 
ry about,"  and  he  glanced  at  her  thoughtfully.  "Miss  Lizzie, 
it's  warm  now.  Isn't  that  brown  frock  too  thick  and  heavy  ?" 

And  once  again  he  made  polite  inquiries  after  the  blue 
dress  with  the  white  spots. 

"When  will  you  wear  it?" 

"Never,"  and  Lizzie  looked  straight  before  her  and  walked 
a  little  faster.  "I  hate  blue  dresses — and  I  think  you  have 
very  bad  taste." 

"Oh,  I  say " 

"I  think,  if  you  want  to  talk  about  people's  dress — you  had 
better  go  and  talk  to  your  friend,  Miss  Barter." 

"Don't  you  approve  of  my  talking  to  Miss  Barter  about 
dress — or  anything  else?" 

"Approve !    What  has  it  to  do  with  me — or  my  father  ?" 

"Oh,  but  I  like  you  to  take  an  interest  in  me." 

Suddenly  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  snapped  his  fingers. 
He  had  been  watching  her  face :  she  had  flushed  very  slightly, 
then  had  closed  her  lips  resolutely  and  was  walking  on  faster 
and  faster.  She  would  talk  no  more. 

"I  am  anxious  about  my  father,"  she  said,  and  then  re- 
mained silent  till  they  reached  the  white  railings  of  King's 
Cottage.  But  Jack,  walking  by  her  side,  seemed  pleased  and 
content,  though  she  would  not  look  at  him  or  speak  to  him. 
It  was  as  if  the  kind  sunlight  made  him  so  happy  that  noth- 
ing else  mattered. 

Mr.  Crunden  was  completely  in  the  dumps  and  sadly  needed 
cheering.  Mr.  Bowling,  who  sat  by  the  invalid's  chair,  looked 


HILL  RISE  287 

even  more  gloomy  than  his  client.  He  could  only  say  "Tut, 
tut,"  when  Crunden  showed  him  the  hateful  and  impudent 
letter  that  had  come  from  the  London  and  Suburban  Trust. 

Jack  after  much  argument  had  prevailed  on  Mr.  Crunden 
to  let  him  "sound  the  Company,"  and  now  this  was  their 
reply :  "Your  Mr.  Vincent  has  approached  us,  and  we  are  pre- 
pared to  deal  at  a  times  price.  Subject  to  contract,  we  offer 
£150  per  acre  for  the  upper  portions  of  your  unoccupied 
ground." 

"Oh,  they  don't  really  mean  that,"  said  Jack.  "That's  just 
their  bounce.  Let's  make  out  we  think  they  are  offering 
£150  rent  per  acre,  on  building  lease — and  reply  that  sub- 
ject to  contract  we  accept  their  offer.  They'll  look  foolish 
then  and  they'll  have  to  explain." 

He  was  gay  and  jovial — smiling  at  the  sombre  faces  of 
Crunden  and  Bowling:  so  light-hearted  and  hopeful  to-day 
that  no  setbacks  could  shake  his  self-confidence. 

"I  feel  sure,  sir,  our  hest  chance  is  with  them.  They 
have  the  money.  And  if  we  could  lighten  the  ship,  we  should 
get  along  again.  Will  you  let  me  tackle  them  seriously  ?" 

Then  there  was  solemn  debate — Mr.  Crunden  gradually  be- 
coming less  doleful,  while  Mr.  Bowling  continued  in  deep 
gloom.  Any  treating  with  the  Company  must,  of  course,  be 
conducted  most  cautiously  and  secretly. 

"If  people  get  wind  of  it,"  said  Crunden,  "I'm  done.  If 
it's  known  that  I've  been  driven  into  the  arms  of  the  Com- 
pany— there's  an  end  to  my  credit." 

"A  dangerous  move,"  said  Bowling.  "A  very  dangerous 
move." 

"Our  best  chance,"  said  Jack.  "I  feel  sure  it's  what  we 
must  come  to,  sooner  or  later." 

Alone  with  Bowling  in  the  road  outside  the  cottage,  Jack 
gave  his  views  even  more  firmly. 

"I  told  you  what  I  thought  last  autumn.  Your  scheme  went 
to  pot  the  moment  these  bounders  started.  Then  was  the 
time  to  take  stock  and  remodel  the  scheme  on  other  lines: — 
give  up  half  of  it,  and  get  out  as  fast  as  one  could.  That's 
all  there  is  left  to  do  now.  Get  out  as  fast  as  one  can — save 
all  one  can." 


288  HILL  RISE 

"I  hope  you  don't  blame  me  personally,"  said  Mr.  Dow- 
ling. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Jack;  "but  I  don't  want  you  to  stand  in 
the  way  now — if  we  can  cut  short  our  losses." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Bowling.  "I  assure  you  it  gives 
me  pain  to  see  our  friend  troubled  and  harassed.  I  only 
wish  I  was  a  rich  man  and  could  bolster  him  up — but  I  am 
not.  ...  I  have  myself  been  much  harassed  of  late,  Mr. 
Vincent — not  money  matters.  Are  you  going  to  the  yard? 
May  I  stroll  with  you  so  far?" 

And  Mr.  Dowling  unburdened  himself  of  his  private  and 
domestic  trouble.  He  spoke  of  the  censoriousness  of  the 
world,  the  false  positions  into  which  mistaken  kindness  often 
pushes  one,  and  of  the  unpleasantness  which  the  drawing  of 
hasty  conclusions  now  and  then  causes  in  the  home  circle. 

"Great  unpleasantness,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  after  a  cough 
and  a  pause.  "It  is  about  my  little  neighbour — er — Miss 
Barter.  She  has  written  me  a  silly  note — addressed  to  Mr. 
Dowling!  Mr.  Dowling!  One  would  suppose  she  might 
know  W.  Dowling,  Esquire,  was  the  proper  mode  of  address. 
However,  her  customers  being  all  ladies,  she  would  not  often 
be  writing  to  our  sex — and  is,  therefore,  ignorant  of  the  usual 
superscription  for  gentlemen.  But  the  ignorant  mistake 
caused  our  maid  to  deliver  the  note — to  Mrs.  Dowling." 

"Ah!    How  awkward!" 

"One  thing  leads  to  another,"  said  Mr.  Dowling  dolefully. 
"And  there  has  been  further  unpleasantness  about  Miss  Bar- 
ter— and  a  sum  of  fifty  pounds." 

"Has  there  ?    Oh,  hang  it — how  did  that  come  out  ?" 

"An  inadvertence.  It  is,  as  I  said,  not  a  matter  of  the 
money.  The  sum  is  so  trifling.  But,  Mr.  Vincent — I  scarcelv 
like  to  ask  it — but  if  you  were  a  married  man  you  would 
understand.  Would  you  mind  my  pretending  that  you  gave 
her  fifty  pounds?" 

"Pretending!     Hang  it  all,  I  did  give  her  fifty  pounds." 

"You  did  ?    To  set  her  up  in  business  ?    I  gave  her  fifty." 

"Do  you  mean  you  gave  her  fifty,  too  ?  Oh,  I  say — what  an 
underhand  little  puss  she  is — really." 

"She  is  very  troublesome,"  said  Mr.  Dowling.    "But  I  had 


HILL  RISE 

no  idea  she  bled  you  also.  It  only  occurred  to  me  to  put  you 
forward — to — er — shield  myself — in  the  home  circle.  You 
know  how  ridiculously  people  connect  one's  name  with  any 
one.  Your  name,  Mr.  Vincent,  was  connected  with  hers  in 
the  stupid  talk  of  the  town.  That's  why  it  occurred  to  me." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  people  to  connect  my  name.  I 
don't  want  my  fifty  talked  about  any  more  than  you  do  your 
fifty." 

"Not  generally,"  said  Mr.  Bowling,  with  eagerness.  "Only 
at  home — your  fifty  would  shield  my  fifty.  If  it  were  to  come 
to  the  point  of  saving  real  unpleasantness,  would  you  mind  my 
putting  your  fifty  forward  in  the  place  of  mine?  Only  at 
home.  Would  you  mind — Brother  Vincent?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Jack  reluctantly,  "I  don't  much  like  it — 
er — Brother  Dowling ;  but — yes — work  it  how  you  please." 

The  Medford  District  United  Bank  had  a  little  printed  no- 
tice advising  clients  to  keep  their  cheque-books  carefully  under 
lock  and  key;  and  for  the  comfort  of  clients  as  well  as  for 
the  protection  of  the  bank  this  was  good  advice.  Counter- 
foils sometimes  disclose  mysterious  little  secrets  to  income-tax 
people,  official  receivers,  greedy  relations,  and  affectionate 
wives.  Mr.  Dowling  usually  locked  up  his  cheque-book  while 
there  were  any  cheques  still  in  it;  hut  when  the  book  was 
empty  he  became  careless.  And  so  it  befell  that  Mrs.  Dow- 
ling, tidying  a  drawer  which  contained  several  exhausted 
cheque-books,  came  upon  the  old  counterfoil :  "J.  B.,  £50." 

Mrs.  Dowling  for  long  had  been  suspicious  as  to  the  rela- 
tions of  her  husband  and  the  J.  B.  whom  she  once  met 
coming  downstairs  when  she  was  going  upstairs ;  and  she  now 
had  determined  to  rake  out  all  the  truth.  She  might  smile 
and  seem  to  accept  as  sufficient  whatever  explanation  was 
offered,  but  untiring,  unresting,  overwhelming  as  the  ocean, 
she  pursued  the  process  of  investigation. 

Thus  it  happened  that  what  Mr.  Dowling  described  as  the 
"unpleasantness"  swept  out  of  the  home  circle  in  a  terrible 
tempestuous  wave.  This  very  afternoon  when  the  Crundens, 
Jack,  and  Mr.  Dowling  were  assembled  round  the  tea-table 
at  King's  Cottage,  a  fly  drove  up  to  the  door  of  ceremony, 


290  HILL  RISE 

and  there  began  a  tremendous  knocking  and  ringing  which 
even  Mrs.  Price  plainly  heard. 

"Visitors  again,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  as  she  hurried  to  answer 
the  furious  summons.  Then  to  those  at  the  tea-table  came 
the  sound  of  a  voice  which  made  Mr.  Dowling  turn  pale. 

"If  my  husband  is  here,"  cried  the  \G'.  :e,  "I  demand  to  see 
him  this  moment.  .  .  .  Follow  me.  ...  I  will  not  let  you 
out  of  my  sight." 

And  Mrs.  Dowling  burst  through  the  parlour  into  the  work- 
room, followed  by  Miss  Jessie  Barter. 

"Hullo,  Jessie,"  said  Jack  blankly. 

"You'll  excuse  me  rising,"  said  Mr.  Crunden.  "My  leg's 
bad  and  I'm  not  to  stand  on  it." 

But  Mrs.  Dowling  paid  no  attention  to  this  courtesy.  In 
her  excitement  she  ignored  all  except  her  husband. 

"This  lady  bears  out  your  tale — but  I  want  to  see  you 
two  face  to  face.  Ah,"  and  she  recognised  Jack,  "and  you 
also,  Mr.  Vincent.  Now  I  have  you  all  three  face  to  face." 

"My  love,"  said  Mr.  Dowling  imploringly.  "Surely — 
please " 

"If  you  are  guiltless,"  cried  Mrs.  Dowling,  "you  have  noth- 
ing to  fear.  Be  silent  then." 

Mrs.  Dowling  was  a  terror — Medford  had  always  said  so, 
and  in  this  respect  Medford  was  entirely  accurate.  Swelled 
with  wrath  she  seemed  immensely  large :  the  beads  and  bugles 
on  her  rich  cloak  rattled  angrily,  the  plumes  of  her  toque 
were  tossed  in  scorn,  as  she  planted  herself  on  the  hearthrug — 
majestic,  red,  terrible,  dominating  the  surprised  tea-party. 

"Now,  Mr.  Vincent,  I'll  begin  with  you.  On  your  word  of 
honour,  did  you  give  this  lady  fifty  pounds?" 

"Well — I  don't  know  that  it  concerns  anybody  except  the 
lady  and  myself.  But,  since  you  want  to  know — yes,  I  did." 

Lizzie  had  risen  from  her  chair,  was  looking  from  one  to 
another:  at  Jack  nervously  playing  with  his  teacup  and 
spoon;  at  Jessie  smirking  impudently.  Now  she  left  the 
table  and  drew  away  towards  the  hearthrug  and  Mrs.  Dow- 
ling. 

"You  are  not  repeating  a  tale  put  into  your  mouth  by  my 
husband  ?" 


HILL  RISE  291 

"I  have  answered  your  question,"  said  Jack. 

"And  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  truth,  you'll  answer  all 
my  questions." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Jack;  and  he  looked  full  at  Lizzie, 
who  had  drawn  nearer  to  Mrs.  Dowling. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  borrowed  this  money?  It  was  not 
your  own  money?" 

"I  borrowed  it — but  I  paid  it  back.  And  now  I  know  how 
long  it  takes  to  earn  fifty  pounds.  I  think  I  was  very  gen- 
erous;" and  Jack  looked  full  at  Jessie. 

"Strangely  generous,"  said  Mrs.  Dowling  loudly  and  scorn- 
fully. "So  far  your  tales  agree,  but " 

"My  love,"  interposed  Mr.  Dowling,  "allow  me  to " 

"Be  silent.    You  shall  speak  when  your  turn  comes ' 

"I  must  speak  now,"  said  Mr.  Dowling  desperately.  "You 
are  so  unreasonable  that " 

"Let  me  speak,"  said  Mr.  Crunden.    "Madam,  you- 


'Miss  Crunden,"  said  Mrs.  Dowling,  "I  appeal  to  you  as 
a  woman.  Am  I  unreasonable?  Is  it  not  my  right  to  know 
the  truth?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  don't  think  you  are 
unreasonable."  She  had  drawn  nearer  still,  and  now  she 
stood  by  Mrs.  Dowling's  side  with  all  the  space  of  the  room 
between  her  and  Miss  Barter.  Standing  by  the  parlour  door, 
Miss  Barter  looked  across  the  room  and  smiled  impudently. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Crunden,"  said  Mrs.  Dowling.  "Every 
woman  of  heart  must  support  me.  .  .  .  And  now  as  to 
you,"  and  she  pointed  at  the  unabashed  Miss  Barter,  "if  it  is 
true  that  you  accepted  the  money  from  this  gentleman,"  and 
she  pointed  at  Jack,  "you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"Why  not  ?"  said  Jessie.    "We  were  as  good  as  engaged." 

"Oh,  I  say,"  Jack  expostulated.  "Jessie,  you  are  really. 
That  is  not  the  fact.  Really  and  truly — there  are  no  grounds 
for  that  statement." 

"You  had  given  me  the  right  to  expect  it,"  said  Jessie; 
"and  I  did  expect  it — and  I  don't  care  who  knows  you  have 
treated  me  very  cruel." 

Then  for  a  little  while  Jessie  and  Mrs.  Dowling  made  it. 
bad  for  Jack.  It  was  a  dreadful  scene. 


292  HILL  RISE 

"I  decline  to  discuss  the  subject  further,"  said  Jack  at 
intervals. 

"Well  answered,"  said  Mr.  Crunden  again  and  again. 
"Nothing  to  do  with  us.  No  business  of  yours,  madam.  Only 
concerns  the  parties  themselves." 

"Father,  don't  get  up,"  cried  Lizzie  often.  "Kemember 
your  leg.  Sit  still.  Don't  get  up." 

Mr.  Bowling  was  talking  all  the  time — "Hear  me.  I  must 
speak — be  reasonable,  and  I'll  explain,"  etc. — but  no  one 
listened  to  him. 

"Very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Bowling  at  last.  "We  will  leave 
that  part  of  the  question.  Miss  Barter  can  obtain  redress 
from  a  British  jury.  If  there  has  been  breach  of  promise, 
a  jury  will  award  damages." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  with  a  snort,  "and  juries  award 
damages  for  slander  and  libel,  Mrs.  Bowling.  Bon't  forget 
that." 

"Sit  still,  father.    Remember  your  leg." 

"The  truth,"  said  Mrs.  Bowling,  with  a  scornful  laugh, 
"is  ugly  enough — no  one  need  add  to  it.  ...  Very  well,  Mr. 
Vincent.  The  fact  that  concerns  me  is  that  you  borrowed 
the  money  from  my  husband." 

"No,  he  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Bowling. 

"No,  he  didn't,"  echoed  Mr.  Crunden. 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  say,"  Mr.  Bowling 
continued  desperately. 

The  impleasantness  had  rolled  far  from  the  family  circle: 
poor  Mr.  Bowling  could  no  longer  shield  himself  behind  the 
indiscretion  of  another.  Honour  compelled  him  to  confess  at 
once,  and  indeed  he  had  been  striving  to  do  so.  Now,  obtain- 
ing a  hearing,  he  stoutly  declared  that  the  tell-tale  counter- 
foil— J.  B.,  fifty  pounds — had  no  connection  with  Mr.  Vin- 
cent's fifty. 

"Ha  ha !"  cried  Mrs.  Bowling.  "Now  we  are  getting  to 
the  bottom  of  it — at  last.  Oh,  what  liars  men  are !" 

Then  for  a  little  while  she  made  it  bad  for  Mr.  Bowling. 

But  Mr.  Bowling  roused,  compelled  to  fight,  fought  bravely 
and  manfully — fighting  to  exonerate  a  brother  Mason  as  well 
as  himself.  Pale,  desperate,  and  yet  not  without  dignity,  he 


HILL  RISE  293 

told  how — purely  as  an  act  of  kindness — he  had  given  this 
young  lady  capital  to  start  her  in  trade.  It  seemed  a  deserv- 
ing case  and  he  had  been  glad  to  offer  assistance.  And 
this  gentleman — Mr.  Vincent — had  done  the  same  thing — 
without  a  thought  that  any  one  could  or  would  misconstrue 
the  motive — from  simple  kindness. 

"I  would  have  told  you  of  it — and  expected  you  to  applaud 
me,  but  you  are  so  unreasonable.  All  ladies,"  Mr.  Bowling 
added  loyally,  "are  so  unreasonable  in  these  matters  that  I 
kept  it  to  myself." 

"Well  answered,"  said  Mr.  Crunden.  "And  now,  madam, 
perhaps  you'll  let  me  have  my  word.  I  say  hear  hear,  to  what 
Mr.  Vincent  and  Mr.  Dowling  did.  Though  they  showed 
themselves  a  bit  foolish  when  they  gave  the  money,  they 
showed  their  kind  hearts.  And  what  is  more,"  and  Mr. 
Crunden  made  a  loud  grunt,  "I  did  the  same  myself.  I  gave 
her  fifty  pounds,  too." 

"Don't  get  up,  father." 

Mr.  Crunden,  to  produce  more  dramatic  effect  with  his 
words,  was  about  to  rise  from  his  chair.  Still  seated,  he 
bowed  to  Mrs.  Dowling. 

"Now,  are  you  satisfied,  madam?  Do  you  wish  to  cross- 
examine  me  ?  ...  Yes,  I  did  give  her  fifty — on  my  honour. 
And  why  did  I  do  so?  Because,  you  see,  I  was  a  bit  of  a 
fool — sorry  for  the  girl.  But" — and  he  turned  round  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  Jessie — "I  suppose  you  won't  make  out  / 
wanted  to  marry  you." 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Crunden,"  said  Jessie,  simpering,  and 
flashing  her  cold,  grey  eyes  mischievously,  "you  have  always 
been  very  kind  and  chivalrous.  It  had  struck  me." 

"Oh,  pooh !"  said  old  Crunden,  with  an  indignant  snort. 

"Jessie,"  said  Jack,  shaking  his  head  reproachfully,  "you 
really  are,  you  know.  Well,  you  really  are.  How  many 
other  fifties  did  you  get?" 

"Not  one." 

"You  seem  to  have  bitten  everybody's  ear  that  you  could." 

Jack,  although  reproachful,  was  smiling  at  Miss  Barter; 
but  Mr.  Crunden  was  thoroughly  angry  with  her. 

"Look  here,  my  girl,"  he  said  sternly,  "there's  one  thing 


294  HILL  RISE 

never  struck  you  with  all  your  cleverness,  and  that  was  to  pay 
back.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  we've  had  more  than  enough  of  your 
sauce — and  cheek — and  ungrateful  mischief-making.  You 
can  just  go  about  your  business — you  aren't  wanted  here." 

"And  I  am  sure  I  didn't  want  to  come  here,"  said  Jessie. 
"I  was  dragged  here.  Good-morning.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Jack. 
You  may  laugh — but  you  know  in  your  heart  of  hearts  you've 
treated  me  very  mean." 

While  Miss  Barter  was  thus  dismissed,  Mrs.  Bowling  and 
Lizzie  had  been  talking  together  on  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
and  now  Mr.  Dowling  had  joined  them.  Mrs.  Dowling  was 
subdued,  confused,  and  yet  perhaps  still  suspicious. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  my  dear?"  asked  Mr.  Dowling,  with 
wonderful  dignity.  "If  so,  we  had  better  apologise  for  dis- 
turbing our  friends,  and  withdraw." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dowling,  after  hesitating,  "yes — but  I 
must  say  you  all  three  behaved  very  oddly — very  oddly 
indeed." 

Then  Mr.  Dowling  took  his  wife  away  with  him. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Crunden,  when  the  guests  had  gone,  "she 
is  a  terror,  and  no  mistake.  In  all  my  born  days  I  never  heard 
such  a  rumpus  about  nothing — just  nothing  at  all.  I  thought 
she'd  never  be  satisfied." 

Jack,  in  the  window,  had  watched  the  fly  drive  off;  and 
Lizzie,  coming  from  the  hearth,  now  stood  near  him. 

"Just  a  ridiculous  rumpus — about  nothing,"  said  Mr. 
Crunden  again. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Jack  cheerfully ;  and  then  he  dropped 
his  voice  .to  a  whisper.  "And  are  you  satisfied,  too,  Miss 
Lizzie?" 

"I  agree," — Lizzie  whispered — "with  Mrs.  Dowling.  I 
think  you  all  behaved  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner." 

But  that  evening  she  wore  again  the  plain  gold  bangle 
which  she  had  discarded  for  months — ever  since  the  winter 
afternoon  when  she  saw  Miss  Barter  beneath  the  lamp-post  in 
Hill  Rise.  Jack  had  cleared  himself  of  all  but  folly. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

DAY  by  day  the  popularity  of  Crunden  was  waxing.  The 
lower  his  fortunes  fell,  the  higher  he  rose  in  public  favour. 
All  prated  of  his  success :  confounding  him  perhaps  with  the 
omnipotent  London  and  Suburban,  not  remembering  which 
were  his  houses  and  which  the  Company's,  only  caring  for 
the  fact  that  a  new  town  had  sprung  into  life  on  the  Hill,  and 
that  trade  was  booming.  But  to  Crunden  it  seemed  that  fate 
was  mocking  him,  was  driving  him  on  to  ruin  amidst  a  chorus 
of  ironical  praise. 

"There  is  something  in  the  wind,"  said  Mr.  Hope  of  the 
Advertiser.  "You  saw  my  last  article  on  Municipal  Dignity? 
— well;  a  whisper  in  your  ear,  Mr.  Crunden.  It  has  been 
mooted — to  invite  you  to  act  as  Mayor." 

"Gammon,"  said  Mr.  Crunden. 

"The  project  has  been  mooted,"  said  Mr.  Hope,  with  great 
importance.  "It  is  men  of  your  stamp  that  we  want — men  of 
wealth  who  can  entertain — and  worthily  uphold  the  municipal 
dignity.  Our  mayors  have  been  poor  little  men  of  late — 
we  want  big  men  like  yourself." 

"Oh,  that's  just  gammon.    I'm  not  even  on  the  Council." 

"It  is  unusual,"  said  Mr.  Hope  pompously,  "to  go  outside 
the  Council  for  a  mayor,  but  it  has  been  done  again  and 
again — as  in  the  case  of  these  lords  and  the  large  towns — 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk — the  Marquess  of  Bute — and  many  other 
noblemen  possessing  urban  territory." 

Mr.  Crunden  told  Jack  of  this  conversation,  and  sadly 
confessed  that  the  possibility  of  such  an  honour  would  once 
have  been  very  welcome. 

"It  is  a  thing  that  I  would  have  liked,  sir — been  very  proud 
of — once.  But  if  they  offered  to  make  me  Pope  now — it 
would  come  too  late.  .  .  .  Who's  that  passed  the  window? 
Not  that  Padfield  again?" 

295 


296  HILL  RISE 

Day  after  day  at  King's  Cottage  they  were  worried  with 
visitors.  People  wasted  the  workers'  time — in  silly  polite- 
ness, or  because  of  their  own  stupid  affairs.  And  ever  since 
Mrs.  Bowling's  explosive  entrance,  the  nerves  of  Crunden 
and  his  clerk  had  been  shaky :  they  dreaded  callers  and  started 
at  the  sound  of  bell  or  knocker. 

Mr.  Charles  Padfield  was  of  late  a  much  dreaded  time- 
waster.  He  worried  Lizzie  by  attention  whenever  she  met 
him  out  walking.  "Which  way  you  going,  Miss  Crunden?  I 
don't  mind  which  way  I  go.  What?  Going  home?  Then 
I'll  walk  with  you — and  look  in  on  old  Jack."  And  Mr.  Pad- 
field,  vacuously  leering,  would  pay  most  insipid  and  unde- 
sired  compliments. 

"How  well  you're  looking,  Miss  Crunden.  I  never  saw 
you  looking  so  well.  How  fast  you  walk.  D'you  ever  go  to. 
the  theatre?  Why  couldn't  we  get  up — theatre  party — 
eh?" 

One  could  only  suppose  that  Mr.  Padfield,  looking  about  him. 
vacantly,  had  decided  that  Miss  Crunden  was,  in  the  old  phrase, 
well  worth  following  up.  He  certainly  followed  her  when- 
ever he  saw  her  in  public  places,  and  even  followed  her  into 
the  shelter  and  privacy  of  home. 

"Hallo,  Jack.  I  must  be  goin' !  Just  escorted  Miss  Crun- 
den. How're  you  getting  on — rakin'  in  the  dollars,  eh  ?  Why 
don't  you  build  a  hotel,  and  cut  out  the  White  Hart?  Got 
a  cigarette — have  you.  .  .  .  Very  well,  I  won't  smoke  in 
here.  I  must  be  off." 

Without  telling  Mr.  Padfield  to  go,  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  make  him  go — although  he  was  always  promising  to  do  so. 

Jack  was  extraordinarily  busy — mysteriously  occupied  from 
morning  till  night,  thoughtful,  absent-minded.  He  was  in 
fact  attempting  a  task  of  the  most  ambitious  character.  He 
had  said  to  Crunden :  "It  sounds  rather  cheek,  sir,  but  may  I 
try  to  make  a  scheme  now — a  getting-out  scheme.  I  don't 
want  to  speak  of  it  to  old  Dowling.  But  let  me  see  if  I  can 
make  it  solid  and  then  put  it  before  you — and  him.  I  don't 
suppose  there'll  be  anything  in  it — and  yet  I  can't  help  think- 
ing I  see  daylight." 


HILL  RISE  297 

"Do  you,  sir?  I  doubt  it — but  try.  Yes,  try  what  you 
like — so  long  as  you  don't  let  folks  guess  how  we  stand." 

"Give  me  a  week,"  said  Jack.  "Give  me  a  week — clear 
from  to-day — and  I'll  report  progress.  I  promise  I  won't  do 
any  harm — if  I  don't  do  any  good." 

More  letters  came  for  Mr.  Vincent  now  than  for  Mr.  Crun- 
den.  In  this  week  it  was  as  if  the  clerk  had  become  the 
principal.  He  hurried  hither  and  thither,  round  and  round  the 
town,  up  to  London  before  breakfast,  back  in  Medford  before 
dinner.  He  sat  at  his  desk  for  long  hours,  covered  his  table 
with  prodigious  masses  of  papers — plans,  lists,  schedules — 
that  Mrs.  Price  and  the  maid  were  forbidden  to  touch;  as  he 
sat  writing  he  would  not  answer  when  you  spoke  to  him ;  when 
you  thought  he  was  at  last  coming  to  a  meal,  he  sprang  up, 
snatched  his  hat,  and  dashed  out  of  the  house.  He  had  thought 
for  nothing  beyond  his  new  work.  Visitors  now  made 
him  very  irritable:  the  Crundens  left  him  unmolested,  but 
visitors  seemed  to  conspire  to  stop  him  in  his  mysterious 
efforts. 

"Mother  dear,  I'm  so  busy — forgive  me."  Lady  Vincent 
had  come  to  the  cottage,  but  he  would  not  get  out  of  his  chair 
to  talk  with  his  mamma.  He  would  scarcely  look  round.  "I'll 
dine  with  you  next  week — any  day,  you  like.  Forgive  me  for 
the  moment;"  and  he  went  on  working. 

Her  ladyship,  awestruck  by  such  unremitting  and  stupen- 
dous labour,  talked  to  Lizzie  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"Is  he  always  like  that  now?"  asked  Lady  Vincent  solici- 
tously. 

"Almost  always,"  said  Lizzie.  "He  is  engaged  on  some- 
thing special — for  my  father;  and  he  cannot  bear  being 
interrupted.  Father  says  it  will  only  go  on  for  a  week." 

"A  week!  But  that  is  a  long  time.  His  health  may  break 
down  in  a  week.  Do  urge  him  to  be  careful.  This  working 
at  such  high  pressure  must  be  dangerous. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  him,"  Lady  Vincent  added,  "that  we 
are  in  the  very  greatest  anxiety  about  our  poor  Cousin  Harriet. 
There  has  been  a  startling  change  in  her  condition  and  the 
doctors  take  the  gravest  view.  My  husband  expects  a  sum- 
mons from  Bournemouth.  .  .  .  That  was  all,  Miss  Crunden — 


298  HILL  RISE 

don't  worry  Jack  about  it.  I  will  not  sadden  him  with  our  sad 
thoughts — while  he  is  working  in  this  manner." 

The  visit  of  his  mamma  was  the  first  slight  interruption 
Jack  suffered  that  day;  but  there  were  worse  interruptions 
before  the  day  was  over.  Indeed  his  work  was  almost  at 
a  standstill:  it  was  nearly  a  whole  day  stolen  from  the 
covenanted  week. 

"Miss  Lizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  in  the  hall  after  Lady 
Vincent  had  gone,  "there's  somebody  in  there  with  him.  I 
believe  it's  that  Mr.  Padfield  again.  It  is  too  bad.  Can't  you 
go  in  and  take  him  away  on  some  excuse." 

But  Lizzie  dreaded  Mr.  Padfield  so  much  that  she  could 
not  at  once  venture  to  the  rescue. 

"Sold  all  your  houses  yet?"  Mr.  Padfield  was  saying. 

"No,  not  all.     Have  you  come  to  buy  one?" 

Jack  had  explained  that  he  was  very  busy,  and  with  con- 
siderable irritation  had  begged  Mr.  Padfield  to  state  briefly 
what  he  wanted. 

"If  I  was  thinking  of  gettin'  married,"  said  Mr.  Padfield, 
stupidly  regarding  the  picture  of  a  decoy-house,  "I  suppose 
I  might  give  you  a  turn,  Jack,  old  chap." 

"Well,  there  you  are,"  said  Jack,  pointing  with  his  pen  at 
the  picture.  "If  you're  looking  out  for  a  snug  little  box — 
marry,  and  put  your  nice  little  wife  in  it." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  yourself  and  put  your  wife  in  the 
box?" 

"Oh,  I'm  a  working-man.  I  couldn't  aspire  to  as  fine  a 
house  as  that." 

"Well,  I  must  be  off." 

"Yes,  do  get  on.    You  see  I'm  up  to  my  eyes " 

But  then  Charlie  Padfield,  glancing  stupidly  at  the  parlour 
door,  began  to  make  inquiries  for  Miss  Crunden. 

"How  well  she's  looking,  Jack.  Quite  tip-top;"  and  he 
paid  Miss  Crunden  some  liberal  compliments. 

"Yes,  she  is  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Jack  shortly. 

"Jack,  old  boy,  I  used  to  think  what  a  lucky  chap  you  were 
— up  here.  But  you're  quite  off  that,  aren't  you  ?  You've  got 
Jessie  Barter — and  the  field  is  clear  in  this  direction,  isn't 
it?  No  offence  now  if  I  follow  it  up." 


HILL  RISE  299 

And  then  Jack  completely  lost  his  temper. 

"-You  can't  want  them  both,"  Charlie  Padfield  was  pro- 
ceeding with  vacuous  blandness.  "I  never  followed  up  Jessie. 
But  you  might  tell  me  this.  I  don't  wish  to  waste  any  time. 
Lizzie  is  all  right,  isn't  she?" 

"Get  out,"  roared  Jack.  His  face  was  red;  he  had  sprung 
up  from  his  chair,  and  was  pointing  at  the  lobby  door. 

"Get  out  before  I  kick  you  out." 

"What  say  ?    What  you  mean,  Jack  ?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say.  Get  out — you  dirty  hound.  And 
don't  come  back  here  unless  you  wish  me  to  give  you  the 
thrashing  you  deserve  for  speaking  like  that  of — of  a  lady 
you're  not  fit  to  speak  of  at  all." 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Lizzie,  coming  into  the  room  presently. 
"I  thought  there  was  somebody  here." 

Jack  was  trembling  with  anger  and  excitement  as  he  pre- 
tended to  search  among  the  ruffled  papers  on  his  table. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  gasp,  "Miss  Lizzie,  there  was  some 
one,  but  he  has  gone." 

"Was  it  that  troublesome  Mr.  Padfield?" 

"Yes,  but  he  won't  trouble  us  any  more.  He  won't  come 
back.  I — I  was  very  angry  with  him — about  something — 
and  I  asked  him  not  to  come  again.  .  .  ." 

"Did  he  promise  not  to?" 

"No,  he  didn't  promise;  but  I  feel  sure  he  won't.  .  .  . 
And  now,"  said  Jack,  sitting  down,  "if  you  don't  mind — 
if  you'll  forgive  me — I  will  try  to  get  on  with  what  I  was 
doing.  I  should  like  to  talk — but  I  really  mustn't." 

The  next  serious  interruption  was  just  after  early  dinner. 
Lizzie  in  the  window  was  reading,  Mr.  Crunden  was  smoking 
a  pipe,  Jack  had  returned  to  his  table,  when  the  ringing 
of  the  bell  made  every  one  jump. 

"Ifs  Mr.  Hope,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  showing  a  scared  face 
at  the  parlour  door,  "and  he  seems  out  of  his  mind  like. 
Asks  to  speak  with  you,  miss;  and  the  master.  Shall  I  show 
him  in?" 

"Oh,  don't  have  him  here,"  begged  Jack  piteously. 


300  HILL  RISE 

But  before  anything  more  could  be  said,  Mr.  Hope  was 
among  them. 

He  was  haggard,  distraught,  incoherent — all  his  pomposity 
and  consequence  gone  from  him — a  limp  elderly  weakling  of  a 
man,  who  sank  into  a  chair  as  though  his  thin  legs  refused 
to  bear  him,  and  who  spluttered  and  raved  and  moaned  in 
affliction. 

"Oh,  Crunden — a  father  yourself!  Oh,  Miss  Crunden — a 
daughter — a  cherished  daughter !  Oh,  Miss  Crunden,  you  have 
heard — you  know  the  fatal  news !  Help  me  if  you  can.  Were 
you  accessory  ?  I  never  can  believe  that.  Oh,  oh !" 

It  was  long  before  any  one  could  make  out  the  cause  and 
nature  of  Mr.  Hope's  distress.  But  finally  lucid  information 
was  extracted. 

Miss  Irene  Hope  had  run  away  with  Mr.  Banker,  the  riding- 
master. 

"They  rode  forth  together,"  moaned  her  father.  "We 
did  not  suspect — we  might  have  suspected.  Irene  has  been 
nervous — hysterical — brooding  on  this  fatal  step.  We  never 
guessed — urged  her  to  her  rides — urged  her  over  the  precipice. 
Now  she  has  fled.  Was  seen  en  amazone  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion. .  .  .  Oh,  my  friends!  help  me  to  trace  them — aid  me 
to  save  my  child  from  infamy  and  disgrace." 

The  weakness  of  Mr.  Hope  was  pitiable  to  observe.  He, 
the  controller  of  a  mighty  engine,  he  who  could  thunder  to 
the  world  about  peace  and  war,  national  courage,  municipal 
dignity,  etc.,  had  collapsed  utterly  beneath  a  private  domestic 
misfortune.  It  was  as  though  he  had  given  all  his  force  and 
energy  to  mankind,  and  had  retained  none  for  his  own  use. 
And  obviously,  real  as  was  his  tribulation,  there  seemed  in  it 
something  ludicrously  exaggerated,  disproportionately  tragic, 
and  not  without  a  personal  element  of  snobbish  fear. 

"Her  mother  and  I  will  be  mocked  at — driven  from  the 
town " 

"Oh,  come,  bear  up,"  said  Crunden.  "A  bit  of  a  rumpus — 
but  forgive  and  forget — all  will  come  right  in  the  end." 

But  Mr.  Hope  only  beat  his  breast  and  moaned. 

"Of  course  they,  ought  to  have  told  you,"  said  Jack  cheer- 
ingly;  "but  then,  you  know ' 


HILL  RISE  301 

"Perhaps  she  really  wanted  to  tell  you,"  said  Lizzie,  re- 
membering Irene's  extraordinary  letter  and  the  dark  allu- 
sions to  life-riddles. 

"I  know  Banker  well,"  said  Jack.  "He's  a  thorough  good 
sort.  Really,  Mr.  Hope,  I  think  your  daughter  might  have 
done  worse." 

"Worse!"  cried  Mr.  Hope  tragically.  "You  say  that  to 
me — a  father — of  his  daughter's  shame." 

But  now,  with  further  explanation,  it  appeared  possible 
to  relieve  Mr.  Hope  of  the  larger  part  of  his  pain.  He  was 
labouring  under  a  queer  mistake.  He,  who  ought  to  have 
known  everything  about  Medford,  showed  himself  ignorant 
of  all  but  the  outward  aspect  of  one  of  its  most  conspicuous 
citizens.  He  had  paid  Mr.  Banker's  bills,  had  talked  often 
with  Mr.  Banker,  had  begged  Mr.  Banker  to  take  care  of  his 
child;  he  knew  that  Mr.  Banker  was  the  fashionable  riding- 
master  who  rode  with  all  the  ladies  of  Hill  Bise,  and  such 
scrappy  superficial  knowledge  was  all  he  possessed.  At  the 
livery-yard,  which  he  had  visited  more  than  once,  he  had  seen 
Mr.  Banker's  sister — a  smiling,  comfortable  woman  who  sat  in 
the  little  office  and  put  orders  on  a  slate,  while  her  lusty  brood 
of  young  children  ran  in  and  out,  or  played  hide-and-seek 
among  the  broughams  and  victorias  in  the  adjacent  coach- 
house;— and  he  had  jumped  to  the  quite  erroneous  con- 
clusion that  Mr.  Banker  was  a  married  man  with  a  large 
family. 

Immense  was  his  relief  on  learning  that  Mr.  Banker  was 
not  married — was,  in  truth,  an  honest,  hard-working  bachelor, 
who  could  not  possibly  forfeit  the  esteem  of  a  large  clientele 
by  any  reprobate  negligence  of  his  responsibilities  toward  the 
fair  and  trusting  Irene. 

"You  are  certain?    Oh,  my  friends — I  could  weep  tears  of 

joy." 

It  was  no  longer  a  tragedy.  Irene,  one  might  say,  was  only 
ruined — socially. 

"You'll  have  a  telegram,"  said  Jack,  "before  you  can  look 
round — to  say  the  church  has  given  them  its  blessing  and 
they're  coming  back  to-morrow  to  ask  you  to  give  'em 
yours.  ...  If  I  were  you,"  added  Jack,  glancing  at  his 


302  HILL  RISE 

table,  "I  should  run  home  now  and  see  if  the  telegram  hasn't 
arrived  already." 

But  Mr.  Hope,  although  immensely  relieved,  still  showed 
a  most  lamentable  weakness.  He  was  in  fear  now  of  painful 
publicity.  He  who  lived  by  recording  public  opinion,  ex- 
hibited a  morbid  horror  of  the  public  press,  lest  its  loud  voice 
should  begin  shouting  his  name. 

"There  will  be  paragraphs  in  the  London  papers.  I  think 
I  will  go  to  London  and  call  on  confreres.  .  .  .  That  man 
Mees  will  pillory  me  in  on-dits.  If  not  bribed,  Mees  will 
fill  the  Bulletin.  Mr.  Vincent,  aid  me  to  shut  that  man's 
mouth.  I  will  pay  any  money.  Will  you  go  and  see  him — pay 
hush-money?  Buy  silence  for  me  at  all  costs." 

And  Jack  was  at  last  compelled  to  accompany  Mr.  Hope 
in  order  to  support  him  while  he  walked  through  the  public 
streets ;  and,  further,  to  promise  to  use  all  his  own  and  Crun- 
den's  influence  with  Mr.  Mees. 

Mr.  Hope  was  back  again  before  supper.  A  telegraphic 
message  had  arrived,  and  Mr.  Hope  hastened  with  it  to  his 
kind  friends.  The  riding-master  had  permitted  no  unseemly 
delay. 

"Her  mother,"  said  Mr.  Hope,  "shed  tears  of  joy  when  she 
read  that  signature.  Irene  Banker !  Her  mother  had  taken  to 
her  bed.  She  is  now  sleeping  peacefully — and  my  agitation 
is  passing.  I  was  stunned  by  the  blow — but  am  now  myself 
again.  May  I — will  you  let  me  stay  to  supper  with  you  ?" 

It  was  almost  a  lost  day  for  Jack. 


CHAPTEE  XXV 

THE  week  was  nearly  over.  Except  during  twenty  minutes 
at  supper-time,  Jack  had  been  working  for  nine  hours  on 
end.  It  was  late;  Mr.  Crunden  had  gone  to  bed;  but  Jack 
still  sat  at  his  table.  A  shaded  lamp  threw  its  light  upon 
the  untidy  masses  of  papers,  the  sketch  maps  and  tracings, 
the  rulers,  the  measuring  scale,  and  upon  the  gigantic  waste- 
paper  basket  by  the  worker's  chair;  but  all  the  rest  of  the 
big  room  was  in  darkness.  In  the  circle  of  bright  light, 
with  the  black  shadows  all  about  him,  he  looked  like  Work 
personified — the  sleepless  spirit  of  work,  unflinching,  un- 
blinking, while  all  the  world  slept. 

Lizzie  peeped  in  from  the  parlour  threshold,  and  watched 
him.  His  lips  were  moving;  rows  of  figures  were  spinning 
from  his  pencil :  .he  was  apparently  deep  in  arithmetical  calcu- 
lations— abstrusely  difficult  sums  of  compound  interest,  per- 
haps. 

"Mr.  Vincent,  it  is  very  late." 

He  did  not  look  round. 

"Mr.  Vincent — can't  you  stop?  You  must  be  tired.  It  is 
dreadfully  late." 

"Yes."  He  spoke  without  looking  round.  "Pricey  is  sit- 
ting up.  She'll  put  the  chain  on  after  I'm  gone." 

Lizzie  crossed  the  room,  softly  opened  the  door  of  the 
kitchen  passage,  and  passed  out.  On  this  other  threshold 
she  glanced  back,  but  he  did  not  look  round :  he  was  absorbed, 
concentrated,  unassailable,  a  worker  in  a  circle  of  bright  light, 
not  conscious  of  vague  meaningless  forms  that  stirred  idly  in 
the  shadows  beyond  his  magic  circle. 

Mrs.  Price,  with  only  one  candle,  was  sitting  at  the  kitchen 
table.  Patient,  uncomplaining,  she  was  cheerfully  forfeiting 
her  well-earned  repose;  would  have  been  content  to  wait  all 
through  the  long  night  if  Mr.  Jack  bade  her.  She  had  been 

303 


304  HILL  RISE 

whiling  away  the  slow  minutes  by  the  aid  of  a  very  old  pack 
of  cards.  Her  bare  table  was  spread  over  with  kings  and 
queens,  and  humble  sevens.,  eights,  etc.;  and  her  lips,  too, 
moved  as  she  amused  herself  in  abstruse  countings  and 
reckonings. 

"Pricey,  he  is  still  working.    He  won't  leave  off." 

"I  know,  dear.    You  go  to  bed.    I'll  sit  up  for  him." 

Mrs.  Price  looked  round  with  a  smile,  raked  the  playing- 
cards  into  a  heap,  and  then  took  Lizzie's  hand. 

Lizzie  had  come  to  the  table  and  was  studying  the  dirty 
clothes  and  greasy  faces  of  the  knaves :  these  court  cards  were 
so  old  that  they  might  have  been  those  used  in  the  old  games 
of  Muggins. 

"Lizzie,  my  dear,  how  cold  your  hand  is — and  you're  pale 
— and  trembling.  What  is  it,  dear?  Don't  you  worry.  His 
strength  won't  give  out — he's  so  brave." 

"I  don't  know/'  said  Lizzie  forlornly.  "He  ought  to 
stop " 

"You  go  to  bed,  dear.  .  .  .  But,  Miss  Liz,  sit  down  a 
minute  first — and  I'll  tell  your  fortune.  The  cards  are  fall- 
ing out  lucky  to-night.  There's  money  coming  to  this  house. 
We  shall  all  get  our  wish.  It's  come  out  every  time." 

"Has  it?  ...  I  left  the  passage-door  open.  We  mustn't 
make  a  noise;"  and  Lizzie  softly  drew  forward  a  chair  and 
sat  down,  as  in  the  old  childish  days,  to  have  her  fortune 
told. 

"Now" — Lizzie  had  shuffled,  and  cut  the  pack  thrice;  and 
Mrs.  Price  was  beginning  to  deal — "have  you  wished?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  in  a  whisper ;  and  Mrs.  Price  turned  up 
the  cards  three  by  three. 

"Three.  The  money!  One,  two,  three.  There,  that's 
him.  One,  two,  three.  And  a  journey.  There's  a  journey 
to  go,  and  money  at  the  end  of  it.  That's  Mr.  Jack — King 
of  Clubs, — and  he's  close  to  the  money." 

"Pricey — are  you  sure  he's  clubs  ?    Isn't  he  spades  ?" 

"No,  of  course  he's  clubs — clubs-gentleman.  Spades-gen- 
tlemen are  much  rarer  than  you'd  think  for.  Your  pa's 
hearts.  .  .  .  Cut  'em  again;"  and  the  fortune  slowly  pro- 
ceeded. 


HILL  RISE  305 

"One,  two,  three,  four,"  Mrs.  Price  whispered.  "There  he 
is.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six.  .  .  ." 

The  candle  flickered,  and  monstrous  shadows  danced  behind 
the  chairs.  The  feeble  light  on  the  ceiling  was  like  a  faint 
hope  that  spreads  and  narrows,  vacillates  and  once  more 
spreads ;  the  ticking  of  the  clock  was  like  the  heart-beat  of  an 
unconscious  giant,  not  to  be  hastened  by  hope,  or  checked 
by  fear;  the  patter  of  the  cards  as  they  dropped  made  one 
think  one  listened  to  the  rustling  leaves  in  the  book  of  fate 
while  unseen  hands  lifted  them  and  let  them  fall.  Lizzie,  with 
her  white  face  close  to  Mrs.  Price's  shoulder,  trembled  and 
drew  her  breath  faster  and  faster. 

"Yes.  There.  There's  your  wish.  You'll  get  your  wish, 
Liz,  my  darling;"  and  Mrs.  Price  suddenly  threw  her  arms 
round  her  and  kissed  her.  "Oh,  you'll  get  your  wish — don't 
fear." 

"Good-night,  Pricey.  Thank  you;"  and  Lizzie  gently  dis- 
engaged herself. 

"Go  to  sleep,  my  pet,  and  don't  worry  about  his  working. 
He's  working  for  you — not  for  your  father." 

"Pricey,  don't — please  don't  say  such  things." 

"But  I  do  say  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  in  a  triumphant 
whisper.  "From  the  first  I've  hoped  for  it  and  prayed  for 
it — but  I  never  seen  it  coming  true  till  last  autumn " 

"Hush — please.     Good-night !" 

Lizzie  went  softly  back  through  the  big  room,  and  the 
clubs-gentleman  did  not  see  her  or  hear  her.  In  his  circle 
of  light,  he  could  not  see  vague  forms  that  moved  in  the 
shadow,  could  not  hear  the  ticking  of  clocks  or  the  beating  of 
hearts :  he  was  deep  in  abstruse  arithmetic,  and  quite  una- 
ware that  any  living  thing  had  passed. 

Upstairs,  when  Lizzie  had  undressed  and  got  into  bed, 
she  could  not  sleep.  She  stared  at  the  darkness ;  and  through 
all  the  darkness,  the  thick  old  brick  walls,  the  massive  beams, 
and  flooring-board,  the  plaster  and  the  lath,  she  could  still 
see  him — pale,  grave,  beautiful,  surrounded  by  a  glory  of 
vivid  light.  She  smiled,  and  trembled,  and  wept.  Was  it 
true — would  she  get  her  wish?  In  the  darkness  she  flushed 


306  HILL  RISE 

till  her  face  was  burning,  and  then  she  turned  cold  and 
faint.  Hope  warmed  her,  fear  made  her  deadly  cold:  hot  fit 
succeeded  cold  fit :  it  was  like  some  dreadful  sickness — that  old 
love-sickness  diagnosed  by  Dr.  Blake,  come  back  now  in  a 
far  more  virulent  form. 

She  could  not  sleep.  She  struggled  with  herself — but  it 
was  no  good.  She  was  sick — of  love:  she  was  desperately, 
overpoweringly  in  love  with  Mr.  Jack — with  the  real,  strong, 
working  Jack,  and  not  his  fantastic,  easily  dispersed,  smil- 
ing shadow. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MR.  CEUNDEN'S  ship  was  on  the  rocks,  helplessly  bumping 
about,  at  the  mercy  of  the  fierce  winds  and  the  cruel  waves, 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  staved,  breached,  broached,  and 
broken  up ; — but  Mr.  Crunden's  popularity  was  enormous. 

Jack,  who  was  to  present  his  scheme  this  afternoon,  had 
been  out  all  the  morning,  and  when  he  returned  to  King's 
Cottage  he  found  the  big  room  full  of  people. 

It  was  a  deputation  come  to  wait  on  Mr.  Crunden:  half  a 
dozen  important  citizens,  as  representative  of  Medford,  come 
to  invite  him  to  a  public  dinner  in  recognition  of  his  public 
services,  and  to  ascertain  if  later  he  would  be  willing  to 
accept  the  Mayoralty. 

Here  were  Alderman  Holland;  and  Mr.  Hopkins,  himself 
an  Alderman  now;  Councillors  Eogers  and  Osborn;  and  Mr. 
Eaton,  who  had  realised  his  ambition  and  was  now  a  Coun- 
cillor— two  Aldermen,  three  Councillors,  with  those  well- 
known  and  respected  tradesmen  Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Bradshall, 
all  in  turn  buttering  Mr.  Crunden. 

"You  were  longer-sighted,  sir,  than  what  we  were" — Mr. 
Hopkins  was  speaking  in  his  best  Council  manner — "  and  you 
frightened  us  by  the  largeness  of  your  views.  You  saw  what 
the  town  wanted — but,  sir,  }Tour  views  was  too  large  for  us. 
It  was  a  big  thing  to  open  up  the  town  and  extend  it — and 
a  big  man  was  required  to  take  on  such  a  job.  But,  sir,  you 
seemed  too  big  for  us.  We  were  like  so  many  timid  children 
saying :  Best  leave  well  alone.  We're  doing  very  nice  as  we 
are;  we  shan't  never  do  better.  Come  to  try  and  improve  the 
town  and  you'll  only  spoil  it.  ...  Now,  sir,  that  talk  was  so 
much  'umbug!  We  know  we  was  wrong.  We  can  see  clear 
now,  all  that  you  foretold  then." 

"Hear,  hear  I" 

"And  we're  proud  of  you — and  we  mean  to  tell  you  so, 

307 


308  HILL  RISE 

and  to  prove  it  by  the  honour  we  have  it  in  our  power  to 
offer." 

"Hear,  hear !" 

To  Mr.  Crunden,  listening,  it  seemed  like  the  last  cruel 
mockery  of  fate.  Next  November — said  the  mocking  voices — 
or  the  following  November,  he  might  wear  the  civic  chain, 
might  sit  on  the  borough  bench  and  hear  the  last  of  the 
Guy  Fawkes  charges  if  Gunpowder  Day  had  happened  to 
produce  a  riot. 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  he 
leaned  on  the  stick  that  he  had  used  since  the  accident  to  his 
leg.  He  was  frowning  though  he  tried  not  to  frown,  looked 
gloomy  and  sad  though  he  sought  to  appear  gratefully 
cheerful. 

"You're  very  kind;"  and  he  grunted.  "Gentlemen,  I  take 
it  very  kind  of  you;"  and  he  grunted  again.  "But — well — 
I  hardly  know — whether " 

"Oh,"  said  Jack,  "don't  refuse,  sir.  You  must  go  to  the 
dinner,  sir." 

"Bravo !"  said  one  of  the  deputation.    "Of  course  he  must !" 

"And  we  hope,"  said  another,  "that  Miss  Crunden — your 
daughter,  sir, — will  grace  the  banquet  with  her  presence. 
Our  wives  will  be  there  and  it  won't  be  complete  unless  Miss 
Crunden  comes." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Jack,  "Miss  Crunden  will  come." 

"And  you  too,  Mr.  Vincent — I  need  'ardly  add — you  must 
come !" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Jack,  "we'll  all  come." 

He  was  eager  to  be  rid  of  these  flattering  visitors;  he 
was  answering  for  his  employer  because  he  thought  Mr.  Crun- 
den was  not  to  be  trusted  to  answer  for  himself .  Mr.  Crunden, 
hesitating,  frowning,  and  grunting  in  embarrassment,  had 
just  now  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  telling  the  company 
the  reasons  why  no  feasting  at  the  White  Hart,  no  civic  dis- 
tinction, could  chase  the  wrinkles  from  his  forehead  and  ban- 
ish the  worried  expression  of  his  eyes. 

Jack  was  unfolding  his  scheme — result  of  his  excessive 
toil — and  Crunden  and  Bowling  were  listening  attentively. 


HILL  RISE  309 

"Remember,  Mr.  Bowling,  this  is  what  I  call  a  getting-out 
scheme.  You  must  dismiss  the  past  from  your  mind.  It  is 
not  what  we  might  have  done  once;  it  is  what  we  can  possibly 
do  now." 

He  was  seated  at  his  table,  and  before  him  all  the  papers — 
plans,  lists,  endorsed  letters — were  no  longer  in  an  untidy 
litter:  everything  was  arranged  methodically,  to  be  under  his 
hand  when  he  might  require  it.  Crunden  and  Dowling,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table,  were  comfortably  established  in 
armchairs. 

"Well,  then,  this  is  our  present  situation:  our  debt  to  the 
bank  is  £15,000.  At  all  costs  we  must  wipe  that  off.  I  am 
convinced  that  we  shall  never  do  any  good  until  we  are  clear 
of  the  bank — and  stand  free — unhampered  by  anybody — 
absolutely  our  own  masters." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Dowling,  "if  you  can  tell  us  how 
to " 

"Please  don't  interrupt  me.  .  .  .  I'll  make  everything 
plain  as  I  go  on.  But  if  you  interrupt  me,  I  shall  get  con- 
fused. I  was  saying  £15,000  to  be  provided  without  any 
further  delay.  Our  other  debts  amount  to  £900 — say  £16,000 
which  we  have  to  find  to  pay  all  debts.  .  .  . 

"Well  now,  I  think  I  can  see  daylight — I  think  we  can 
put  ourselves  on  a  sound  footing — but  I  am  sorry  to  say 
my  scheme  all  hinges  on  this:  We  shall  still  want  £5,000  to 
carry  us  over  the  next  half-year  and  make  us  really  safe.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I'll  pass  on.  I  have  worked  it  down  to  that,  and  I 
can't  get  it  lower — five  thousand;  and  only  to  carry  us  over. 
We  shan't  want  it  for  more  than  six  months.  .  .  .  Now  to 
business.  Please  take  the  plans," — and  Crunden  and  Dow- 
ling were  each  given  a  map  of  the  whole  Hill,  showing  the 
Company's  land  as  well  as  the  Hill  Rise  Estate, — "and  please 
believe  that  everything  I  put  before  you  is  solid.  It  may 
be  good  or  bad — wise  or  foolish;  but  it's  hard-boiled  fact. 
It  won't  blow  away  in  smoke.  .  .  .  The  London  and  Sub- 
urban make  a  firm  offer  of  seven  thousand  for  the  ten  houses 
and  ground  to  the  left  of  Hill  Rise — the  even  numbers.  Here 
is  their  offer  in  black  and  white — and  I  propose  that  we  close 
with  it." 


310  HILL  RISE 

It  was  in  truth  a  most  beggarly  offer.  Mr.  Crunden  snorted 
wrathfully.  Seven  thousand  for  the  apple  of  his  eye — the 
magnificent  frontage  to  the  open  common — the  golden  strip 
wherefrom,  in  the  original  scheme,  his  final  and  princely 
reward  was  to  be  derived ! 

"Giving  it  to  them/'  said  Jack.  "I  know  that.  It  ad- 
joins their  land ;  they'll  clear  away  the  houses,  and  go  blazing 
ahead.  But  we  must  have  cash,  and  there  is  cash — seven 
thousand.  .  .  .  Now  look  at  the  ten  acres  marked  A  behind 
the  odd  numbers.  I  have  settled  with  the  Universal  Insurance 
Society — all  in  black  and  white — for  a  permanent  mortgage 
of  fifteen  hundred  at  four  per  cent,  on  this  ground — not  to 
be  built  on." 

"Not  to  be  built  on!"  said  Crunden.  "Why,  the  upper 
decoy-house  stands  bang  in  the  middle  of  it." 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you  about  that  later.  .  .  .  The  Universal 
pledge  themselves  to  two  more  mortgages.  Two  thousand 

on  your  three  other  decoys " 

"They   cost  over  four  thousand — without   counting  the 
site  value " 

" And  three  thousand  on  the  last  thirty  cottages  as  soon 

as  half  of  them  are  occupied; — and  they  will  be  occupied  in 
six  months — if  we  drop  the  rents  low  enough.  .  .  .  Lastly, 
our  old  friends  Griggs  will  let  us  have  two  thousand  on  the 
other  ten  houses  of  Hill  Rise,  at  six  per  cent., — greedy  dogs — 
subject  to  my  scheme  going  through — but  not  otherwise.  Now 
there  you  have  it.  L.  and  S.,  seven  thousand ;  first  two  Uni- 
versal mortgages,  three  thousand  five  hundred ;  Universal  third 
mortgage;  and  Griggs,  five  thousand.  Ruination  terms,  no 
doubt,  you  will  say — but  they're  solid,  and  I'll  eat  my  hat  if 
any  one  gets  you  better  terms.  And  it  doesn't  matter — we'll 
pay  it  all  back.  The  only  real  sacrifice  is  the  L.  and  S.  sale — 
letting  those  bounders  get  just  what  they  want — the  beautiful 
common  frontage." 

"It's  all  in  the  clouds,"  said  Crunden,  shaking  his  head. 
"Five  thousand  of  it  is  the  only  promise." 

"No,"  said  Jack,  "it's  solid.  Griggs  and  the  Universal  third 
mortgage  are  contingent,  as  I  said,  but  all  in  black  and  white. 
Look,"  and  he  handed  across  some  neatly  docketed  papers, 


HILL  RISE  311 

"they  won't  wriggle  out.  It's  five  thousand  to  come.  But 
we're  five  thousand  short  till  we  get  it.  ... 

"And  now  to  the  other  side — what  we  are  to  do  if  we  carry 
it  through.  First  and  foremost:  those  ten  acres — that  we're 
not  to  build  on — comprising  the  old  tennis  courts — and  the 
protecting  belt  that  was  wanted  by  my  Guv'nor — and  you 
wouldn't  give " 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  we'll  do  it  now.  We'll  give  'em  twice  what  they 
asked.  Instead  of  five  acres,  they  shall  have  ten.  It  shall  be 
a  tennis  club  again — but  for  all  Medford  this  time — no  rotten 
exclusiveness — all  the  world  and  his  wife.  These  people  in 
the  Company's  houses  are  dying  for  a  tennis  club.  Look 
here — look  at  that.  There's  a  list  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
members  at  three  guineas  each — all  solid  promises.  I'll  get 
a  good  rent.  You  may  take  it  from  me,  the  new  club  will 
be  a  rousing  success.  I  answer  for  this." 

"And  my  decoy-house !    What'll  you  do  with  that  ?" 

"Pull  it  down  if  necessary — if  the  dashed  thing  stands  in 
our  way.  .  .  .  No,  sir — that  is  to  be  the  new  clubhouse — 
something  like  a  clubhouse — and  I'm  going  to  get  three  hun- 
dred per  annum  for  my  house  and  ten  acres.  And  there  will 
be  something  coming  at  last,  won't  there? 

"Think,"  continued  Jack  with  animation,  "what  this  means. 
Ten  acres  lifted  off  your  back — accounted  for.  The  lawns 
of  a  flourishing  club — full  of  jolly  people — instead  of  that 
dismal  empty  space  staring  you  in  the  face — something  for 
every  one  to  look  at.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do 
with  those  ten  Hill  Eise  houses — I  mean  to  fill  them  with 
tenants  again." — He  was  like  a  young  and  untried  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  making  a  first  budget  speech.  As  he  went 
on  with  more  and  more  eagerness,  he  dropped  the  We  and 
You,  and  it  became  all  I. — "I'll  pull  down  the  back  garden- 
walls  and  put  iron  railings,  so  that  people  can  look  right  into 
the  tennis  ground  as  if  it  was  their  own  park." 

"You'd  never  get  the  old  tenants  to  come  back." 

"I  shan't  try.  I'll  get  new  tenants.  The  tradesmen-towns- 
people— not  the  old  gang.  Look  here.  I'm  going  to  give 
those  houses  a  lick  of  paint  and  a  brush  up,  and  I'm  going 


312  HILL  RISE 

to  let  them  to  sensible  people  at  forty-five  pounds  a  year. 
Across  the  road  the  L.  and  S.  will  be  putting  up  their  smart 
little  bandboxes  and  letting  them  at  fifty  pounds,  and  I  shall 
say:  Very  good.  I  don't  pretend  our  houses  are  as  smart 
and  up-to-date,  but  they're  better  built,  they've  three  times 
the  accommodation,  and  they're  five  pounds  less — now  if 
you've  a  large  family  and  aren't  a  fool,  you'll  know  which  to 
choose." 

"It  sounds  all  right  to  talk  about." 

"It  is  right.  It's  solid — not  gas.  Look  here.  In  six 
months  I'll  let  every  one  of  these  ten  houses,  and  that'll  be 
four  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  coming  in.  I  have  let  four 
already — conditionally  on  the  starting  of  my  club.  There 
you  are — look  at  the  letters.  Brown — my  Guv'nor's  butcher 
— is  taking  one.  And  there's  Swan — and  Waygood — and  old 
Martin  the  saddler.  .  .  .  You  know,  a  lot  of  this  ought  to 
have  been  in  your  scheme  from  the  very  first.  To  popu- 
larise, democratise  Hill  Rise — and  not  destroy  it.  That  ought 
to  have  been  your  line  from  the  first.  .  .  . 

"Please  look  at  your  maps.  Another  virtue  in  my  tennis 
club !  It  creates  frontages.  We  can  guarantee  not  to  build  on 
it  for  fifteen  years.  Well,  people  will  build  all  round  it  for 
us.  I  have  firm  offers  for  four  plots  already — subject  to  club 
and  guarantee — at  a  higher  rate  than  we've  been  near  yet : — 
one  hundred  and  fifty  per  acre.  There  you  are.  Catch  hold, 
Bowling — see  for  yourself.  .  .  .  Now  look  at  the  map — 
above  the  tennis  ground.  See  how  neatly  L.  and  S.  road 
works  in.  We  can  just  continue  it  bit  by  bit.  People  like 
building  next  to  established  neighbours — it's  an  easier  job  any 
day  to  increase  a  neighbourhood  than  to  make  one.  Plots  up 
there  will  go  like  hot  cakes — we'll  just  carry  on  the  Com- 
pany's plan  for  them.  .  .  . 

"And  now,"  said  Jack,  with  a  shining  face  and  a  ringing 
voice,  "am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong?  I'm  as  sure  as  I  sit 
here  that  it's  right  all  through.  In  six  months  you'd  have 
added  a  gross  income  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty — coming  in 
regularly — to  pay  all  charges  for  interest  and  keep  you  going 
comfortably.  Your  troubles  would  be  over.  You'd  be  your 
own  master — able  to  wait  for  what  the  future  was  bringing. 


HILL  RISE  313 

You'll  soon  pay  off  these  potty  little  mortgages — and  you'll 
see  your  money  again — every  penny  of  it.  ...  This  is  what 
we  shall  do  with  that  open  space  in  the  end.  We  shall  sell 
it  to  the  town.  Every  year  it'll  go  up  in  value.  They'll 
have  to  buy  it  in  the  end — for  a  municipal  recreation  ground. 
Fifteen  hundred  an  acre — two  thousand.  We'll  get  twenty 
thousand  for  our  tennis  club — before  we've  done  with  it. 
Now,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong?" 

"By  God,  he's  right,"  said  Crunden  loudly. 

"I — really  I  begin  to  think  he  is,"  said  Bowling. 

"If  I  had  the  five  thousand,"  said  Crunden  energetically, 
"I'd  say  do  it,  sir — yes,  by  God,  try  and  do  it." 

His  face  had  flushed,  his  eyes  had  brightened:  he  tossed 
the  letters  upon  the  table,  got  up,  and,  forgetting  his  lame 
leg,  walked  about  the  room  briskly  until  a  twinge  of  pain 
stopped  him. 

"Then  this,"  said  Jack,  rearranging  his  papers,  "is  what 
we  have  now  to  consider.  Can  we  possibly  bite  any  one's 
ear  for  five  thousand  pounds — as  a  loan  on  our  personal 
credit?  It  ought  to  be  possible/'  and  he  looked  hard  at  Mr. 
Bowling.  "If  anyhow  we  can  make  it  possible,  I  am  sure 
we " 

"May  I  interrupt  now?" 

And  Mr.  Bowling  with  much  feeling  explained  his  own. 
financial  position :  he  was  the  husband  of  a  woman  of  means, 
but  he  had  practically  no  means  himself  beyond  his  profes- 
sional income.  At  this  moment  he  possessed,  of  his  very 
own  money,  about,  and  unhappily  not  more  than,  one  thou- 
sand pounds.  That  he  freely  offered.  "I  could  not,  Mr.  Vin- 
cent, attempt  to — ah,  in  your  odd  phrase — indeed,  it  would  not 
be  right  for  me — to  bite  Mrs.  Bowling's  ear.  But  all  I  am 
personally  good  for — I  beg  Mr.  Crunden  to  use." 

"Brother  Bowling,"  said  Jack,  "you're  a  trump.  ...  If 
we  could  only  scrape  it  together !  We  needn't  get  it  all  from 
one.  We  can  imitate  Jessie  Barter.  Eaton,  I  know,  is  good 
for  five  hundred.  And  there's  my  Guv'nor.  I  haven't  tried 
him — but  I  know  Sir  John  would  let  me  bite  his  ear  for  a 
thousand  or  even  fifteen  hundred.  I  believe  Sir  John  is  good 
for  that  by  now — -and  I  shouldn't  scruple,  because  I  know  it's 


314  HILL  RISE 

safe,  and  he'd  see  it  again  in  six  months.  Now  is  there 
any  one  else?" 

There  was  no  one.  Jack  and  Bowling,  racking  their  brains, 
could  think  of  no  confiding  friend  who  was  good  for  another 
sixpence.  If  the  successful  issue  of  Jack's  scheme  hung  on 
the  raising  of  five  thousand  pounds  without  security,  the 
scheme  must  collapse. 

Old  Crunden  came  hack  to  his  armchair,  and  sat  down 
wearily. 

"You're  very  kind,  sir.  You're  all  kind — but  I  couldn't  ask 
it.  Sir  John — least  of  all.  But  I'm  proud  to  think  he'd — help 
me.  No,  sir."  Weariness  sounded  in  his  voice — profound 
dejection,  absolute  hopelessness.  "It's  all  no  use.  You'd 
never  raise  the  money.  Too  much;"  and  he  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  half-closed  his  eyes,  as  one  tired  out — only 
craving  rest.  Jack's  scheme  was  another  splendid  mockery — 
mirage  of  shady  trees,  green  grass,  cool  water,  seen  by  a  lost 
traveller  in  the  vast  desert — a  flicker  of  bright  hope,  and  then 
dull  despair. 

"No  use,"  he  murmured,  "I'm  done.  My  own  fault.  No 
one  to  blame.  Your  words,  sir:  I've  bitten  off  more  than  I 
could  chew." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Jack.  "No;"  and  he  came  to  his  employer 
and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder.  "A  brave  front  still.  Never 
say  die.  We'll  do  it  somehow.  We'll  pull  through — some' 
Jiow." 

He  brought  his  chair  and  sat  by  the  side  of  his  employer, 
talking  to  him  hopefully,  endeavouring  by  all  arts  to  cheer 
him,  and  rouse  him  to  courage  and  effort.  Dowling,  after  a 
long  talk,  left  them  sitting  side  by  side,  each  thoughtfully 
brooding. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

DUSK  was  falling;  Mrs.  Price  had  just  cleared  away  the 
tea  things,  and  had  carried  the  tablecloth  through  the  lobby 
to  shake  out  the  crumbs  for  the  birds;  Mr.  Crunden  sat  in 
the  deepening  shadows  by  the  hearth;  Mr.  Jack  stood  by  the 
open  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  silent  empty  road,  the 
smokeless  chimney  stacks  of  Hill  Eise,  the  swallows  hawking 
high  in  the  fading  sunlight.  From  a  little  distance  came 
the  insistent  voice  of  church  bells — St.  Barnabas  calling  the 
pious  Miss  Vigors  and  other  faithful  souls  to  vespers.  And 
from  close  by  came  a  gentle  plaintive  music — Miss  Lizzie  in 
the  parlour,  softly  playing  the  piano. 

Presently  there  was  a  noise  of  rapidly  approaching  wheels, 
to  break  the  melodious  peace.  Mrs.  Price  in  the  roadway  had 
paused  to  enjoy  the  pleasant  evening  air,  but  now  she  flung 
wide  her  cloth  and  flapped  it  loudly.  Actively  flapping,  she 
startled  the  horse  in  the  station  fly  as  it  trotted  fast  towards 
her,  and  made  it  baulk  and  stop  before  it  reached  the  white 
palings. 

"That'll  do,"  called  the  passenger  in  the  fly.  "Pull  up. 
Let  me  get  out.  Wait,  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

"Hullo!"  cried  Jack. 

It  was  Sir  John  Vincent — in  his  big  travelling  coat,  with 
a  rug  over  his  shoulder,  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
— springing  out  of  the  cab,  hastening  by  the  window,  actively 
and  lightly  as  a  boy  of  eighteen. 

"Hullo !"  cried  Sir  John  excitedly.  "Can't  spare  a  minute. 
Don't  detain  me.  I'm  on  my  way  up  from  the  station — 
your  mother  anxiously  waiting  for  me!"  All  this  Sir  John 
called  to  his  son  at  the  window,  and,  still  talking,  he  came 
through  the  lobby  into  the  room. 

"How  do,  Crunden?"  said  Sir  John  hastily.  "My  dear 
fellow,  how  are  you?"  and  he  hastily  shook  hands.  "I  am  in. 

315 


316  HILL  RISE 

a  hurry.  Jack,  I  have  most  important  news  for  you — but  not 
a  minute  to  spare.  Of  course  you  know  she  has  gone?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Jack.  "But  she  has  married  him.  She 
has  got  a  jolly  good  sort  in  Banker — better  than  she  de- 
serves." 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  Miss  Hope,"  said  Sir  John.  "Harriet! 
Poor  dear — died  at  two  A.M.  this  morning.  I've  been  at 
Bournemouth  since  yesterday  afternoon — was  with  her  at  the 
last.  But  never  recognised  me — poor  old  soul !" 

Then  Mr.  Crunden  delicately  withdrew,  and  left  father  and 
son  alone  to  discuss  their  bereavement. 

"Haven't  you  seen  your  mother?  Your  mother  doesn't 
know  the  details.  I  must  go  to  her.  Only  stopped  to  tell 
you  the  news.  .  .  .  Splendid  news !" — Sir  John  was  already 
edging  away  towards  the  open  door;  and,  seeking  to  give  the 
information  in  one  breath,  was  not  easy  to  understand. — 
"Nothing  wrong — settled  funds  untouched — she  could  not 
touch  them — come  to  me.  Those  people  about  her — maids  and 
doctors — all  honest  as  daylight — not  rogues  as  I  feared.  Never 
pillaged  her.  Saved  her  money — considerable  accumulations 
— every  year.  All  saved — her  own  money — goes  to  you." 

"What?" 

"Come  round  this  evening.  It's  right — congratulate  you, 
my  dear  fellow.  Eight — I  found  the  will.  Lacy  helped  me — 
knew  all  about  it.  Honest  fellow.  I  have  the  will  outside  in 
my  valise." 

"How  much?"  shouted  Jack,  clutching  at  his  father's  coat. 
"How  much  is  it?" 

"Come  round  this  evening,  and  I'll  tell  you  everything." 

"How  much?     Give  me  some  idea?" 

"Oh,  a  lot,"  and  Sir  John  spoke  breathlessly  of  three  thou- 
sand in  this,  four  thousand  in  that,  five  hundred  in  some- 
thing else.  "And,  Consols,  two  thousand  five  hundred.  India 
Threes  the  same.  .  .  .  Congratulate  you — but  let  me  go 
now.  See  you  at  dinner."  And  Sir  John  hurried  out  to  his 
fly  and  drove  away. 

Mr.  Crunden,  in  the  parlour,  was  startled  by  the  joyful 
shouting  of  his  clerk. 


HILL  RISE  317 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Jack  had  never  seen  his 
poor  old  relative;  that  he  had  not  wished  her  days  to  be 
shortened;  that  she  was  full  of  years,  dreadfully  infirm,  with- 
out pleasure  in  life — and  that  no  one  can  live  forever. 

"Crunden,  come  here.  Crunden,  my  bonny  old  boy.  Tally 
ho!  Whoo-hoop.  We're  saved.  We're  safe,  I  tell  you — the 
money's  come." 

"How — how  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"Three  or  four  times  as  much  as  we  wanted."  Jack  was 
wildly  excited,  dancing  and  snapping  his  fingers.  "The  dear 
old  girl  has  left  me  her  savings.  I'm  rolling  in  money.  Now 
we'll  show  these  bounders  who's  who  and  what's  what  in  Hill 
Eise.  We  can  go  straight  ahead." 

"Can  we,  sir?" 

Old  Crunden's  hands  were  shaking;  he  had  brought  out 
his  bandana  handkerchief  and  was  mopping  his  forehead. 

"Where's  Lizzie?"  cried  Jack.  .  .  .  "Tell  Lizzie — let 
Lizzie  hear  the  glorious  news." 

Lizzie  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  parlour  doorway,  and 
was  watching  and  listening.  She  drew  in  her  breath  when 
her  father's  clerk  called  her  Lizzie  without  any  Miss.  When 
he  did  it  again  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side.  When  he  did 
it  the  third  time  her  heart  beat  tumultuously. 

"Ah!  there  you  are.  Money's  come  to  the  house,  Lizzie. 
Old  Pricey  told  me  she'd  seen  it  in  the  cards — after  a  journey. 
My  Guv'nor's  been  the  journey — and  brought  home  the  will. 
Luck  for  all.  No  more  trouble  for  your  father — or  any  of 
us." 

Then  Lizzie,  without  uttering  a  word,  stole  away.  She  must 
be  alone — to  think  of  the  glorious,  most  glorious,  news.  Up- 
stairs in  her  room  she  thought  of  it — the  wonder  and  the 
glory  of  it — while  slowly  she  changed  her  bodice  and  skirt. 

"Sir,  do  I  understand,"  said  Crunden  huskily,  "yon  can  lend 
me  that  five  thousand?" 

"Five?  Ten  thousand — all  I've  got.  We're  right  now,  old 
boy!" 

"Sir,  that's  very  handsome;"  and  Crunden  blew  his  nose 
loudly,  "but,  sir — if  you  do,  it  must  be  on  business  terms " 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  said  Jack  excitedly.     "My  dear  old  boy, 


318  HILL  RISE 

you've  made  a  man  of  me.  I  should  be  a  pig  if  I  didn't  want 
to  pay  you  back " 

"Partnership  terms — no  less.  I'll  owe  it  all  to  you  if  I  get 
out.  If  you  see  your  way  clear — come  in  as  my  partner — 
and  I'll  say,  Yes,  take  half  for  what  you've  done  for  me." 

"Look  here,  if  you  drive  me,  I'll  make  terms,  too.  I'm 
the  bloated  capitalist  now — and  who  are  you — I'd  like  to 
know — dictating  terms  to  me?  Hang  it  all — I  will  make 
terms."  He  was  smiling  and  nodding  his  head,  while  he 
walked  about  the  room.  "Now  you've  gone  too  far.  Where's 
Lizzie?  .  .  .  I'll  only  help  you  now  at  a  price.  .  .  .  And 
this  is  my  price,  you  old  hedgehog.  A  big  price.  Be  prepared 
for  that." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  Lizzie;"  and  Jack's  voice  became  suddenly  as  husky 
as  his  emploj^er's.  "No,  I'm  asking  you  for  what  you  can't 
give — much  less  sell.  But  I  may  ask  her,  mayn't  I,  sir? 
I've  the  right  to  ask  her  now.  .  .  ." 

Lizzie  had  come  back.  The  dusk  was  deepening;  half  the 
room  was  in  dark  shadow ;  she  stood  again  in  the  doorway  till 
he  called  her  name,  and  then  came  shyly  forward,  and  the 
faint  light  from  the  window  fell  upon  the  blue  ground  and 
white  spots  of  her  dress. 

"Lizzie !  .  .  .  Oh !  you  are  wearing  your  lovely,  beautiful 
dress.  That  means — that  means?" 

Her  eyes  were  shining,  her  lips  were  trembling,  her  heart 
beat  fast.  She  did  not  answer. 

"Lizzie,  you  do  know,  don't  you?"  and  Jack's  voice  was 
music  to  her  ears.  "I  couldn't  ask  you  till  now — just  a  work- 
ing-man. No  money — nothing.  But  you  were  kind  to  me 
once.  You  promised — as  a  child.  Eemember  your  prom- 
ise  Lizzie,"  and  his  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  "my 

heart  is  at  your  feet.  Are  you  going  to  tread  on  it  ?" 

"No,  she  isn't,"  said  Crunden,  fiercely  blowing  his  nose. 

"Ah !"  Jack  had  read  the  same  answer  in  Lizzie's  eyes,  "you 
remember."  And,  smiling,  he  drew  back  a  step,  and  with 
appropriate  gesture  spoke  his  line. 

"Madam,  to  you  I  humbly  bow  and  bend." 


HILL  RISE  319 

And  Lizzie,  curtseying  very  prettily,  delivered  her  line. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  take  you  now  to  be  my  friend." 

"And  don't  you  fear,"  said  Crunden  presently,  "that  I'll 
stand  in  your  way.  I  never  judged  the  signs  to  mean  this 
from  you — and  I'm  happier,  sir,  than  I  can  ever  rightly  tell. 
You  shan't  be  bothered — nor  disgraced  with  me.  You  two 
shall  live  in  your  own  house — and  I  shan't  come  pushing 
into  it  to  remind  people " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Jack,  "none  of  that.  We'll  live  here — all 
three — won't  we,  Lizzie?  I  love  this  house — and  I  love  my 
father-in-law  for  my  wife's  sake,  and  for  my  sake,  and  for 
his  own  sake!" 


THE  END 


NOW  READY  IN    THIS   NEW  SERIES 

A  ROCK  IN  THE  BALTIC,  By  Roberi  Barr 

"A  capital  story  for  a  train  or  any  sort  of  a  journey."— New  York  Sun. 

THE  LADY  EVELYN,  By  Max  Pemberton 

"  There  is  not  a  commonplace  or  unexciting1  line  In  the  whole  book." — St. 
Louis  Post-Dispatch. 

THE  MAN  BETWEEN,  By  Amelia  E.  Barr 

"  No  more  startling  story  has  ever  been  written."-  New  York  World. 

REZANOV,  By  Gertrude  Atherton 

"  The  ablest  woman  writer  of  fiction  now  living:." — British  Weekly. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DEFENCE,  By  E.  F.  Benson 

"  Several  years  ago  Mr.  Benson'  startled  England  with  his  first  book,  '  Dodo.' 
Now  conies  '  The  House  of  Defence,'  more  brilliant,  more  startling. "—Philadel- 
phia North  American. 

DOC  GORDON,  By  Mary  E,  Wilkins-Freeman 

"  The  plot  baffles  the  reader's  ingenuity  and  maintains  his  interest  to  the  very 
end." — North  American,  Philadelphia. 

DANIEL  SWEETLAND,  By  Eden  Phillpotts 

"  A  gem  of  action  writing  —  no  one  who  reads  it  will  forget  it." — Grand  Rapids 
Herald. ________ 

THE  CHIEF  LEGATEE,  By  Anna  Katherine  Green 

"  A  great  mystery  story  of  New  York.  The  finest  mystery  narrative  of  its 
sort  ever  written .  "—New  York  World. 

LATTER-DAY  SWEETHEARTS,  By  Mrs.  Burton  Harrison 

Author  of  "THE  ANGLOMANIACS,"  etc. 

"  There  is  a  never-flagging  interest  all  through  the  course  of  this  all-too-brief 
romance  of  up-to-date  life.  There  is  excitement,  too,  in  plenty,  and  throughout 
that  wondrous  charm  of  originality  in  plot  and  treatment."—  Grand  Rapids 
Herald. 


NOW  READY   IN  THIS  NEW  SERIES 

KATE  MEREDITH,  FINANCIER,  By  C,  J.  Cutcliffe  Hyne 

Author  of  "CAPTAIN  KETTLE."  Etc. 

"Taken  all  in  all,  '  Kate  Meredith,  Financier,'  is  a  most  extraordinary,  most 
readable  and  altogether  delightful  book — one  that  will  find  a  warm  reception 
•wherever  primitive  human  nature  and  thrilling  action  are  appreciated." — Balti- 
more American. 


CALEB  GONOVER,  RAILROADER,  By  Albert  Payson  Terhune 

" '  Caleb  Conover  '  is  truly  an  original  character.  His  humor  is  quaint  and 
contagious  and  will  be  remembered  long  after  the  book  has  been  read. "—  Wash- 
ington Star. 


GRAHAM  OF  CLAYERHOUSE,  By  Ian  Maclaren 

(The  last  great  novel  of  this  famous  author) 

"We  are  confident  that  the  reader  will  be  pleased  with  it."— The  New  York 
Sun. 

ALADDIN  OF  LONDON,  By  Max  Pemberton 

"  There  is  mystery  and  sensation  on  every  page."—  Cleveland  News. 

THE  POWERS  AND  MAXINE,  By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson 

Authors  of  "  THE  LIGHTNING  CONDUCTOR." 

"No  one  will  be  disappointed  who  reads  the  '  Powers  and  Maxine.'  " — Boston 
Herald. 


THE  LOVE  THAT  PREVAILED,  By  F.  Frankfort  Moore 

"  The  Author'of  "The  Jessamy  Bride  '  gives  a  stirring  and  enthralling  story 
in  his  latest  work, '  The  Love  That  Prevailed.'  "—Chicago  Evening  Post. 


